Forget Me Not
by FrankieMittens
Summary: A lot of twists and turns - assumed death, insane Molly, Moriarty and Sherlock captured, Irene in the play as well - but that's not all. John got to him in time, but now Sherlock is left in a wheelchair - and he doesn't deal with it well. Established S/J.
1. Chapter 1

Hello, all.

I posted this 1st chapter some time ago, then took it off as I didn't know where to take it anymore. Now I do, however, and it's going to be some ride - well at least I think it will. Judge yourself!

My deepest thanks to emma de los nardos for betaing and helping me, and eyebrows2 for some good points offered.

Hope you like, any comments and remarks are very highly appreciated!

Usual disclaimers apply, of course.

ML

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><p>The funeral was small.<p>

The family Holmes had wanted it to be so, even if the events surrounding the unexpected death of their youngest had caused an upheaval of sorts among the press. This attention and the somewhat superficial public sorrow that often follows the tabloid headlines would have easily allowed for a funeral of more massive a scale, had the family chosen to make it public. What made the death of Sherlock Holmes so salacious to the public was the sheer drama that was written all over it. First, only now had he been publicly recognized after the numerous triumphs concerning seemingly unsolvable mysteries - for all this time he had managed to stay more or less out of sight as sort of a mysterious, almost super-human figure, known only to few selected individuals. Secondly, the events leading to his demise had been straight out from a movie - a battle between a criminal mastermind and a private detective genius – the struggle between good and evil, everything you could want from a B-rated thriller. And finally, Sherlock's death in an epic duel which had ended in a massive, flaming explosion that had ripped through the Reichenbach warehouse, leaving no survivors in its wake.

But despite the public clamour for a public funeral, the Holmes family - mainly Mrs. Holmes, being the undisputed head of it - had kept the service as small as was possible without offending Sherlock's memory.

It was held at 11 a.m. on a December Saturday. Beautiful day, cold and crisp and bright; the sharp rays of the winter sun cut in from the windows, the specs of dust dancing in the air like small ghosts from another world. There was no coffin because there wouldn't have been a body to put it in; the only thing that had remained of Sherlock was a single piece of jawbone and few teeth clinging to it, by which he had been identified. The rest of him had been consumed by the flames that had raged the whole night through, until the exhausted firemen finally put out the last of the fire at the dawn of the day. By then, of course, it had been much too late for Sherlock.

The church was quiet; the final chords of a musical piece performed by Sherlock's cousin, a tall, thin man in his forties, had just faded out. The atmosphere was heavy and didn't correspond with the beauty of the day outside; inside the church, grief clouded whatever sun may have been shining. For some silence can provide comfort, and for John Watson, sitting in the second row behind Sherlock's family, it often did. Now, however, as he knew it was his turn to walk to the front and say some words about the man he had loved and lost, forever, the silence felt unbearable.

How could he go there, in front of all these people who all thought they had known Sherlock? Sure, they had known his brilliance, his eccentricity, his goodness and his faults - and yet they hadn't a clue, they couldn't know him in the same way as John who had shared his heart and soul with him. How could he go in front of them and try to express the magnitude of his loss? To convey how, when he had heard about his death, a part of him had turned cold, died with him, and he had wished he would have died as well, at times he still did -

But he had to go and do what needed to be done, now and tomorrow and the day after, because that was what Sherlock had wanted. His final letter , the scribble written on the backside of a Chinese restaurant take-away menu and stuffed in the pocket of John's favorite jacket, had made it clear that John must carry on.

His last message to him, a text received only some half an hour before the fire had broken out, had asked for his forgiveness. John wasn't able to grant him that. Not yet.

He stood up – slowly, like a man who is in great pain but just manages to bear it, and walked to the front of the church. The distance between where he had been sitting and where he was heading wasn't long, only some tens of feet, but it felt like the longest journey he had ever taken in his life. He felt the eyes of the fellow mourners on him as he slowly walked towards the altar - as small a number as it may have been, the presence of each and every one of them was intense to the point of being overwhelming.

He stopped as he reached the table where Sherlock's picture was placed, alongside some flowers. John stood there for a while, his back towards the patient and silent audience, and looked at the photograph. It wasn't very old, taken perhaps a few months ago; Sherlock looked very much like himself. Intense eyes, pale skin, sharp features softened by the wild hair; John had to stop himself from touching the glass with his fingertips.

Gone. Forever.

Sherlock's eyes looked at him from the image.

John had to close his own. They felt hot and dry.

He turned around, and looking at no one in particular in the audience, cleared his throat to speak. His voice was steady and clear, even if more quiet than usual. "I'm not a man of words, never have been." He held a little pause. "And at a moment like this I find it even more difficult to put into words the loss we all face today. So instead, I will read a poem by W.H Auden."

He adjusted his position slightly and started. His voice cut the silence as sharply as the stab of pain inside his chest.

.

_"Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,_

_Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,_

_Silence the pianos and with muffled drum_

_Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come._

_._

_Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead_

_Scribbling on the sky the message He Is Dead,_

_Put crêpe bows round the white necks of the public doves,_

_Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves._

_._

_He was my North, my South, my East and West,_

_My working week and my Sunday rest,_

_My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;_

_I thought that love would last forever: I was wrong._

_._

_The stars are not wanted now: put out every one;_

_Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun;_

_Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood._

_For nothing now can ever come to any good."_

_._

John's voice didn't break; his heart was already in pieces.

x

x

x

x

He knew he was awake but he sure as hell didn't feel like it. Everything was heavy; his legs, arms, chest, head, even his mind felt like it had been injected with liquid lead. Not to speak of his eyelids - they were practically glued over his eyes, impossible to lift. The sleep from which he had woken up from was still very close by, he could easily fall back into it, it was luring him - but he couldn't allow it, it felt like something was amiss, that he absolutely needed to wake up.

Using every piece of strength he had he forced his eyes open, only to be blinded by the brightness of the room he was in. It was white, everywhere, the kind of cold overpowering shine you get when the midday sun shines into a room with walls as blank as newly fallen snow. It was completely quiet; the only sound he heard was his own breathing which sounded loud and difficult in the total silence surrounding him. He knew that the inhales and exhales he took and the ones he heard were one and the same, but he still found it difficult to believe that they came from the same source.

Narrowing his eyes to protect his aching head, he tried to lift his right hand, only to realize he wasn't able to do so. That notion set off the first alarm in his head; the second was launched a second later as the fact that he didn't know his location reached his still sluggish mind. Turning his head towards his unmovable hand he saw the reason why it was so - it was strapped into the metal bed frame with what seemed to be a very sturdy limb restraint. Testing its strength once more, even if knowing it to be useless, he yanked his arm, this time with more strength. But just as he had assumed, to no avail; the leather strap hugging his wrist looked like it would be able to endure the attempts of a person possessing physical strength far beyond his own.

He tried to get his mind in order, to gather his straying thoughts and awake the reason which seemed to still be sleeping. He needed to analyze the situation, to get facts straight and make a plan of action - but his head felt so off, so blunt and useless. It was this slowness of his mind that made the panic raise its ugly head a bit, not the fact that he was lying strapped in a bed somewhere he didn't know.

_Focus, focus, focus-_

_How did I get here?_

To his shock he realised he didn't have a clue. There were no memories.

The door opened, interrupting him. A woman walked in, in her early thirties perhaps - dark hair, dark eyes, dressed in plain white clothes, pushing a small metal cart in front of her. There were some IV-bags on it, and some syringes. She parked the trolley next to the bed, seemingly not paying any attention to him and walked back to close the door; he wasn't able to see what was behind it.

"Where am I?" His voice was raspy and sounded almost offensively loud in the quietness of the room.

The woman looked at him, as if only now realizing that he was in the room. Then, recovering quickly, she shook her head ever so slightly and smiled a bit. Her eyes were soft and deep, and the expression on her face sympathetic. "One of those days again, Tim?" She took one of the syringes and tapped it with her fingers, examining the contents against the light coming from the window.

He stared at her, blank expression on his face. "Tim?" There was genuine surprise in his voice.

The woman put the syringe back to the trolley and turned her full attention to him. "Yes, Tim, that is your name." Her voice was very patient.

He was only able to stare at her. "No, it's not." Why was his mind so slow? Was he drugged?

The answer came in the next moment as she put some disinfectant on a cotton pad and the wiped his left arm with it. To his increasing distress he saw that there were several small punctures in the area she was now cleaning.

When she spoke her voice was still very soft, very kind - as if she had gone through the same conversation before. "You aren't Tim? What is your name, then?"

He opened his mouth to reply but realized in an instant that he didn't know the answer.

He had no idea.

The woman smiled a small, knowing smile, took the syringe from the trolley and quickly injected the contents into his vein. "It's OK , Tim, sometimes you get confused. The doctor will see you in the afternoon so you can talk about it. Now get some rest."

Before he had time to come up with a response he felt an irresistible tiredness washing over him, the waves of the same persistent sleep from which he had just minutes ago escaped from, and couldn't do anything but to fall back into it, deep deep deep into it, into a place with no name or time.


	2. Chapter 2

Hello,

Many thanks to emma de los nardos for betaing and comments!

Any feedback is greatly appreciated.

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><p>.<p>

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Forget Me Not – Chapter 2

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Coming back to Baker Street after the funeral was not an easy thing to do. The ceremony, small and ascetic as it may have been, had made Sherlock's death real; it had put a full stop to a chapter in John's life, one he wouldn't have wished to end so soon. Not yet, not like this, so unexpectedly and bluntly. Very much like most people when facing the death of someone dear, John had felt the universe had made a dire mistake and that it simply wouldn't be possible for the world to keep turning like it did before that error was fixed. But now, here he was, forced to come to terms with the inevitable fact. He would have to not only understand but also accept that Sherlock wouldn't magically appear from somewhere, excited or sulking or indifferent or whatever his mood would happen to be. The snow would continue to fall on the streets of London but Sherlock would not burst into the living room of Baker Street any more, brushing the evidence of a snowstorm off from his coat and missing the snowflakes in his hair so that they would melt and run down on his neck as small water drops.

Like he had on the day he had died. The last time John had seen him.

_The door slams shut and in a few seconds, almost too quick when you consider the pace with which an average person climbs the stairs, Sherlock is in the living room. John glances up from the book he is reading and from where he is sitting - next to the stone-cold fireplace you can't use because there is some kind of container in it, and that container must not, under any circumstances, be moved - he sees that it is snowing outside; Sherlock is covered with the white, cold substance. He brushes his coat, seemingly oblivious or ignorant of the fact that the snow that had covered him is now on the living room floor where it quickly starts to dissipate, turning into water and soaking the carpet. From the excess shadow cast over his sharp features and the certain type of tension in his posture, it is easy to tell that Sherlock is troubled by something._

_When the tall man turns to look at John, John doesn't point out that there still is snow in his hair. John merely watches as it slowly melts and disappears, loses the star-shapes in the roundness of the water drops now running down on the side of Sherlock's neck._

_He has the urge to stand up and wipe the drops away; instead, he closes his book and waits for Sherlock to speak. The question "What's wrong?" is evident in the army doctor's face; he doesn't have to utter it aloud._

John stood by the window of the empty, quiet flat, staring at the bleak view that opened behind the cold glass. He wished that he had got up to wipe the drops away from Sherlock's face. It would have been a touch more, another fragment of Sherlock's existence stored in his memories.

It hasn't been three weeks yet and already John fears that one day he will run out of those memories.

.

.

During the days after the fire John had spent most of his time in a numb, uneventful state. The initial shock and almost invalidating grief caused by the news of Sherlock's death turned quickly into a deep, overpowering sorrow that wrapped itself around John in every waking moment. It coloured whole existence, turned every sensation from the outside world into a remainder of his loss until it made no difference anymore, because everything was sombre and bleak and all he could do was to try to manage it somehow.

He wandered around the empty flat or stood by the window, staring out to nothingness, for long periods of time, not really thinking or feeling anything. It was almost as if he had been expecting something; of course, by now, it started to become clear to him that waiting was pointless. A few people had stopped by to see how he was - Mycroft, Lestrade, even Harry - and all of them seemed to be surprised by how calm he was. John had served them tea, kept up with the conversation and accepted their condolences with a steady, if quiet, presence. Maybe they had expected him to be shattered into pieces, a wobbly mess of a human being devastated over the loss of his friend, partner and lover, all wrapped into one; perhaps they had been more than slightly worried he would fall into depression, or start drinking, or whatever it is that people do in order to cope when faced with an unexpected tragedy and loss.

But John didn't cry, didn't break down, didn't turn to alcohol or other substances; he closed off whatever it was that had been warm and good inside of him when Sherlock had been alive, and he would not allow it to be awoken again. The only way John thought that he would be able to survive Sherlock's death was to deal with it, to accept it as a fact of life. It was something he had no power over and therefore, he thought, he should not wallow in it. In this way he was probably more akin to Sherlock than he realized; but the main reason for him to try to continue his life was that he knew Sherlock would have wanted him to. If this meant letting a part of him die, to turn cold and still and silent, then so be it.

So he functioned as a human being should - got up in the morning, got dressed, ran some errands, ate his dinner, watched telly, or read and went to bed, only to dance the same dance on the following day. And the day after that, and the day after that. He knew he could do it, play the part of John Watson from now till the day the he would die; he knew the role well, knew what was expected of him and knew he could live up to those expectations.

He also knew that this survival - existence, if you will - was now the best he could hope for. Other people did it all the time, why couldn't he?

.

It was the day after the funeral and John didn't quite know what to do with himself. Sarah had insisted that he take some time off; John had protested that he didn't need any. Then the main water pipe had broken down due to cold and the clinic had to be closed for the time of the reconstruction, so that settled it. John was left with nothing else to do but go back to the empty rooms of Baker Street, very much like he had every day since the fire; but today the burden seemed heavier than it had before, perhaps because the memory of the funeral was still so fresh in his head.

It wasn't like there wouldn't have been anything to do; John knew he should look into practical matters. The truth was that he couldn't afford the flat by himself for a very long time, even if Mrs. Hudson had told him not to worry one bit about the rent for a while. But of course John knew that she needed the money, and therefore he could not live off from her much longer. But in order for him to leave he would have to go through Sherlock's belongings - a task which was quite a monumental one - and for that he didn't have strength for, not today of all days when the mute walls of the flat felt as if they were closing in on him.

In order to escape the suffocating stuffiness he felt - more inside his head than in the flat itself - John thought it would be a good idea to go out and get some air. It was late afternoon, and the sun was already starting to set; the coldness that would creep in immediately after the last rays would fade was already tactile in the air. It would turn out be yet another cold night. John inhaled and exhaled the chilly air, feeling it in his lungs, focusing on the simple act of breathing. He walked aimlessly, with no specific destination in mind; for a while he considered stepping into a pub and getting a pint, but the thought of a crowded, noisy atmosphere where he might be subjected to a social interaction felt slightly overwhelming, so he decided against it.

After some time - he really didn't know for how long he had been walking but it must had been quite a while for it was already almost dark- the direction his feet were taking him became clear to his head as well. It necessarily wasn't the best of ideas, but still he didn't change his course. He would have to do this some day in any case, John reasoned to himself; so he allowed his feet to lead him towards the small industrial area where the Reichenbach warehouse had, until about three weeks ago, stood in.

It didn't take him long to reach the place. There was little left of the building; bulldozers had already taken most of the ruins away, leaving only some smaller scraps and the ground slab of blackened concrete. John imagined he was still able to smell the smoke in the air; most likely it was just a trick played on him by his brain. He stuffed his hands in his pockets and entered the site, walking slowly and keeping his eyes to the ground. Was it at this spot Sherlock had died? Or over there? Had he been dead before the flames had consumed him, or had he been burnt alive? Had he been afraid, or in pain? When his consciousness ceased to exist, what was it that brilliant brain had thought about in its last moment?

John had to close his eyes. He felt slightly dizzy. It really had not been a good idea to come.

It fucking _hurt_.

Inhaling deeply through his nose and exhaling through his mouth John tried to pull himself together, to push away the thoughts of Sherlock losing his life in this very location. He straightened himself up and turned around to leave, only to realize he wasn't alone anymore; there was a figure standing about 60 feet from him, next to the gate that led to the site.

As he slowly started to make his way towards the person he suddenly, to his astonishment, recognized who it was.

"Molly?" John's voice was surprised.

The woman, dressed in a huge black overcoat, the hood of which covered most of her face, took a few steps towards John. "Hi, umm-" She paused for a bit, and then continued with a relieved voice. She had somehow recovered his name from the back of her memory,"- John."

John walked to her, his hands still in his pockets. "How are you?" It was an odd thing to meet her there and John didn't quite know what to do about it.

Molly looked at him, the bright street lights reflecting in her eyes which held the look of a frightened animal. She looked a bit tired, and her nose was red due to the cold. Or crying. or both. "I'm... good, thank you." She shifted her posture a bit, apparently slightly taken aback by John's presence. "And you?"

John stared at her, blankly. He was so used to the question and yet every time during the past three weeks, whenever presented with it, he felt like grabbing the person asking it, shaking them and shouting something along the lines "What do you think?". Instead, he nodded a bit, stuffing his fists deeper into his pockets and replied with a calm voice, "Ok, thanks, I'm ok."

Molly glanced around, hesitantly. She obviously had the need to explain herself; why, John didn't have a clue. "I just wanted to come, you know, I..." She spoke quickly and with a quiet voice that sounded very sad, as if she was on the verge of tears. John hoped she wouldn't start crying; he wouldn't have any idea what to do. "I wasn't invited to the funeral, I mean of course, I'm not family or anything..." Her voice trailed off and she looked at John, jealousy quite visible in her eyes, even if she tried to conceal it.

John cleared his throat a bit. "Well, it was a very small funeral."

Molly nodded quickly. "Yes, yes, I know." She sounded a bit embarrassed. Then she straightened herself and looked at John very cautiously. "You must miss him. You were close."

John merely nodded. Suddenly the whole situation felt exhausting to him. He wanted to leave.

Molly continued with a voice that was a bit distant. She wasn't looking at John anymore but somewhere behind his shoulder. "I didn't know him all that well, really, I mean he was often there in Bart's so I saw him a lot but I didn't _know_ him... He was so difficult to talk to, you know, so distant sometimes... Like the other day when he was there and he had that bandage in his hand and I tried asking what happened to him and he just didn't reply at all, he was so odd sometimes." Molly closed her mouth with a snap, her expression revealing the confusion caused by her sudden monologue. She looked like a deer caught in headlights.

John cleared his throat a bit. "Yes, yes, I guess he was. Listen, Molly -"

Molly's voice had a hint of irritation in it as she cut in. "You have to go, I know."

For a second John saw how her life must be, working with dead bodies from day to day and being infatuated with a man who not only never replied to her feelings but now was also dead, and he felt sorry for her; then the feeling passed and the numbness that had became so familiar to him took over.

"I'll see you around, Molly." His voice was quiet; they both knew that the link connecting them was now gone and they probably wouldn't cross paths anymore.

Molly nodded. "Ok, bye then, John." There was a flicker in her eyes, something so fast and so well hidden John wasn't sure if it was there, but it made him unease nevertheless - he thought he had seen a victorious glee in her eyes, just for a second - and then it was gone, and most likely it was never there in the first place. Why would she possibly feel victorious?

x

x

x

When he came to his senses every now and then for short snippets of time, it was always the same - the same white room, the same leather straps making sure he wouldn't take a step even if his body would have found the energy for it, the same sluggishness of his mind and the same horrible blankness he was faced with when he tried to remember something.

There was pain, as well, he felt it now - aches all over his body, some of them stronger than others. But it didn't come even close in comparison to the agony he felt over the emptiness that ruled inside his head; it was, simply put, terrifying. When the nurse - she was also always the same, and her name was Rachel - came, he tried asking her what was going on, why was he there, what had happened - and was always faced with the same, kind indifference which he imagined was supposed to be calming but managed only to agitate him more. It was, by now, more than obvious to him that he was being constantly drugged, but there was nothing he was able to do about it; just lie there, helpless, waiting for some kind of turn or change.

The change came about one evening - well, he thought it was evening but it could have been in the middle of the night, he had no grasp of time anymore and he didn't know how long he had been wherever he was. the change came in the form of another "patient", as he himself was being called. He had been lying in his bed, half awoke and half asleep, trying to fight his way out from the drug-induced slumber he was forced into when the door opened and another bed was rolled in by the nurse Rachel.

In the bed lay a man, sleeping or otherwise unconscious, mid-thirties perhaps, with dark hair and dressed in a familiar-looking gown. He wasn't very tall, and had a lean build; something in him appeared slightly familiar which was enough to raise his interest in the strange man. Did he know him?

The nurse wheeled the bed next to the wall, too far to make anything out from the features of the sleeping man. She then injected something in him and as she did, spoke with a voice audible enough to fill the otherwise silent room.

"Here's your new roommate, Tim." She hummed quietly as she went on doing whatever it was that she was doing. Her voice was as gentle and calm, as it always was. "His name is Andy, and he will be here with you for a while."

Then another injection, this time in his own arm, and everything was black again.

x

x

Later that evening, when he was getting ready to go to bed, something in the way Molly had behaved bothered John. He couldn't pinpoint it at all, but there definitely was _something_. The fact that she was on the site in the first place was odd, but that wasn't it - maybe she had just wanted to say her goodbyes. People do stranger things than that.

But then, just as he was about to fall asleep, it came to him, so clear and strong and obvious he couldn't understand why he hadn't realized it immediately.

Molly had mentioned Sherlock had had a bandage in his hand, which had been true - Sherlock had cut himself a day before the fire while doing something John necessarily hadn't needed to know the details of, but he hurt himself so bad that he had needed John to put in a few stitches.

But the last time Sherlock had been in Bart's had been three days before that. There was no way Molly could have seen the bandage.

Or rather - there was no way Molly could have seen the bandage _before_ the fire.


	3. Chapter 3

Thank you for the feedback, it is of very high value for me.

And thank you very much emma de los nardos for betaing!

Hope you like, all comments welcomed.

ML

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Forget Me Not – chapter 3

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Lestrade picked up after the third ring.

"Hello?" His voice was husky; he must have been sleeping. Not really what one could call a surprise, given that it was only few minutes to seven on a Saturday morning.

John didn't bother to feel embarrassed; he was way too worked up for that after the night he had just had. "Greg? Hi, it's me, John."

There was an immediate change in Lestrade's tone; in a split second he was fully alert. "John? Is everything OK?"

At the other end of the call John closed his eyes for a brief moment. He really couldn't say for he didn't know; after the long night, during which he hadn't slept a wink, his head wasn't exactly in its right place and he didn't really know anymore what he was thinking. The realisation that had come to him the previous night was so implausible, so far-fetched… And yet it had vexed him so that it had kept him up all through the night, considering various scenarios, every single one of them less plausible than the previous one. And that wasn't been the only thing that kept tossing and turning - there was also that wild, almost uncontrollable hope inside of him, a one which he now did his very best to restrain.

He cleared his throat. "Yes, everything's fine. I was just wondering - who did the identification of the teeth found from the site?" John managed to sound very normal; his tone revealed none of the impatience that burnt his insides.

It took Lestrade a few heartbeats to catch up with John and understand what he was talking about. When he did it cast a new shade on the DI's voice. "You mean Sherlock's identification?" He sounded cautious now, as if trying to figure out from what direction the wind was blowing.

John's jaw clenched and his grip on the mobile tightened. "Yes, that's it. Who did it?" Still, his tone revealed nothing.

Lestrade took a pause before replying. "John, why do you ask? What difference does it make?" His voice was firm but had a hint of compassion in it. Between the lines John was able to sense what the other man really meant - he was worried that John was clinging to Sherlock's death, that behind his calm exterior he was, in fact, not moving on but getting more and more stuck into something that could not be changed.

John took a deep breath. "Listen, Greg, I know Sherlock is dead. I'm not obsessing over it. I'm fine. Just tell me who did the identification. Please?"

Apparently he managed to sound reasonable enough; Lestrade's voice relaxed a bit. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean you're losing it or anything, it's just... Well, you know. As for who identified him - it was the coroner in Bart's, what's her name - Hopper?"

John's breath got stuck in his throat. "Hooper? Molly Hooper?" His mouth felt dry.

Lestrade yawned. "Yes, her. It was a bit strange really, she doesn't usually do that kind of stuff at all, but now there was some mix-up or something with the shifts and she basically volunteered for it. Why?"

John's heart was beating so strong he thought Lestrade might be able to hear it through the phone. "Never mind, I just wanted to know, that's all. Thanks, and sorry for waking you up."

"No worries, I.." The silent line revealed that John had already hung up. Sighing Lestrade put his phone to the nightstand and rubbed his temples. It would appear that some of the infamous Holmes weirdness had transferred onto Watson. He would have to keep an eye open for that one - none of his business really, but during the years the duo had helped him out Greg had grown fond of them, and now after the violent and unexpected death of Holmes he couldn't help but worry for John. Lestrade hoped Watson wasn't going to start to chase shadows, for that was a quest that would be the end of him.

The room was silent minus the two even breaths coming from the two sleeping men, both lying strapped into their beds. The one closer to the window was tall, with dark curly hair and gaunt features, whereas the other, whose bed was placed next to the wall, was shorter, equally dark but perhaps with a slightly softer face, especially now as there was no stress or tension on it. They looked peaceful, but that peace was a mask created by the drug circulating in their veins; when it would wear off, both of them would wake up to yet another day of not knowing, unable to help themselves in any way.

There was one door in the room, and the sound it made when it suddenly opened was intrusive in the otherwise quiet space. Into the room stepped a woman, not the nurse who had been medicating the two men but another one. The woman closed the door behind her and leaned on it, her hand crossed behind her back, and observed the still, unconscious figures. A small, manic giggle escaped her lips and she quickly slapped her right hand on her mouth to silence it.

She walked to the bed of the shorter man and stopped next to it, her hands now hanging on her sides. The expression on her face as she studied his still body was difficult to describe; a mixture of glee and pure, unrestrained hate, finished with a touch of nervousness.

Slowly she lifted her right hand and placed it on the man's face. It was not a caressing touch; her hand was not soft and gentle but there was pressure on it, and the man's head tilted slightly by the strength of her hand.

Her lips, covered with dark red lipstick, parted as she smiled a vicious smile. She moved her hand to his jaw line and then suddenly grabbed his jaw, her fingertips drilling into his cheek.

"Jim, Jim, Jimmy..." Her whisper was so silent it was just barely audible. "Who's the pathetic loser _now_? You?" Her hand, grabbing his face, shook his head so that it appeared he was nodding. "Yes? You?" She hissed as she frantically made his head bob.

She straightened herself and in a quick, shift movement released his jaw and slapped him straight in the face with an open palm. His head swung to one side from the power of the blow and remained there, the area where her hand had struck quickly turning red.

"Asshole." Her voice was more audible now as she spat the word out from her blood-red lips, glaring at him with hatred in her eyes.

She then turned around to face the other bed, the one next to the window, where the taller man lay. As she looked at him her expression softened and her lips curled into a faint smile. She tiptoed her way to the bed, silently, with the eagerness and cautiousness of a child on a Christmas morning who can't get to the tree fast enough but is also careful of waking anybody else up. She put both hands on his sharp face, one on each side, and leaned down to kiss his forehead. The lipstick left a stain on his pale skin and she giggled as she wiped it away with her sleeve.

She placed her hands on his chest and marveled at the feel of his cool skin through the thin fabric of the gown that clad him. She imagined she was able to feel his heartbeat through her palms, even though it was probably her own; her pulse was elevated and she breathed a bit more shallowly than normal. Had an outsider observed her, the word they would have used to describe her would have been happy, or excited.

She sure as hell was both.

Unable to resist the temptation to explore the man she had so yearned for, her hands started to travel on his unconscious body, gentle and caressing, almost soothing. She was smiling a distant smile and her eyes were cloudy, like her mind was completely elsewhere than there in that white, silent room witnessing that odd scene being played out by the three characters.

Suddenly the man under her touch moved, making her quickly pull her hands away like his skin would have suddenly burnt her. She took a short step back and remained standing there, quietly, staring at the now slightly moving figure.

The man grunted and opened his pale eyes, but they didn't focus on anything; she wasn't entirely sure if he even realized she was there. She held her breath and observed as he slowly came to his senses, opening and closing his eyes, trying to move his hands and legs but with a lack of determination that conveyed that he knew it to be futile.

He looked so vulnerable it made her heart ache. He was there, for her to save, and save him he would; and he would love her for that.

The dark man stopped moving then and kept his eyes closed, but she was able to tell from the rhythm of his breath that he was now awake. When he spoke the words came with a tone that revealed he had asked the same question so many times he was no longer able to keep count, and that his expectations for getting a satisfying answer were close to a zero. "Where am I?"

She pursed her lips. She had been waiting for this moment, and now that it had arrived she was a little bit nervous. Maybe she couldn't pull this off?

But this was her chance. _Their_ chance. She couldn't - wouldn't - allow herself to fuck this up.

She opened her mouth to speak but suddenly didn't know what to say, which resulted in an odd little sound escaping from her lips. It was enough to make the man open his eyes; obviously he had sensed a difference in the behaviour between the person standing next to him and nurse Rachel.

He turned his eyes to her. The look in them was piercing, even if he was still under the influence of the drugs that had been pumped into him. She couldn't help but shivering a bit under his intense stare that felt like it had stripped her insides bare, and she had to remind herself that the drug that made it impossible for him to remember anything was still affecting him for at least an hour - before which she would have to give him another dose.

She gained back her ability to speak. "You are in a place where you are taken care of." She did her best to sound convincing but wasn't quite sure if she had managed to do so. Judging by his demeanour she had, in fact, failed miserably.

The man glared at her with fury he wasn't even trying to conceal painted all over his sharp features. "Really?" He glanced down to his wrists; her eyes followed and she knew what he meant.

She kept her voice steady. "It's for your own good, Tim."

"Why do you people keep calling me Tim?" There could have been a hint of genuine interest in his voice; mostly it was coloured with the same annoyance and frustration that was radiating from his whole presence.

"Because it's your name."

"It's not my name." The answer came so fast and was uttered which such certainty that it made her jump a bit. For a split second she thought the drug had worn off and he did, in fact, remember his real name and everything else as well - but his apparent failure to recognise her was enough to ensure her that he was still under the influence of the drug.

This thought process, running through her head in a fraction of a second, made her choose her next words badly. "How can you be so sure if you don't remember?"

There was a flash in his eyes and she scolded herself for letting that slip out.

"How do you know I don't remember?" His voice was so smooth, like silk touching her skin; but there was a blade hidden in it, sharp enough to startle her.

Small pause, one she hoped didn't reveal her nervousness. This was not going quite like she had planned. "Because... Because that's why you are here."

He lifted his hand, or rather the little that he was able to. "I'm tied to the bed because I have amnesia?" The mockery in his voice was apparent. It was amazing how he managed to turn the situation like that - to make her feel like the underdog when he was the one strapped down. When she was the one who was in control. Who had the power.

He continued before she had time to reply. "And him? Does he have amnesia as well?" He nodded his head towards the unconscious man in the other bed. "Or is this just your idea of a get-together? You must be awfully dull company if you have to tie your guests down and drug them in order for them not to leave."

A wave of anger, so strong it almost blackened her vision, jolted trough the woman. With one, quick step she closed the distance to the bed and hit him in the face, very much in the same manner as she had done to the other man just a few minutes before . "_Shut up_!" Her voice was distorted.

The sound of her palm hitting his face was obscenely loud and the force of the blow equal to it, yet the man didn't even grunt as his head fell to its side. He merely turned his face back to her, slowly, narrowed his eyes a bit and spat the words out with a voice full of ridicule. "Is_ that_ really the bestyou can do?"

She stood there, trembling with anger and shock over what she had just done - this wasn't supposed to go like this, he was supposed to see her as his savior, his helping angel - when the doorbell, ringing from the depths of the house that was behind the closed door of the room, distracted her.

"Shit!" She was angry now, and nervous, and both of the emotions were visible in her voice. She shot a final look to the man, an odd mixture of desperation and anger, turned on her heels and stormed out of the room.

x

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John was practically leaning on the doorbell. Granted, it was only 10 A.M. on a Saturday morning, but it still shouldn't be taking this long for Molly to open the door. Maybe she just didn't hear the bell? The house was huge - how she was able to afford such a mansion on a coroner salary was beyond John.

It had taken him some time to find first Molly's address and then the house itself. It was about an hour and a half outside London, located on a quiet area away from the main road; the were no neighbours very close by as the house, besides being huge in itself, also seemed to possess quite a considerable amount of land as well. No wonder she was a bit of an oddball - living by yourself in a place like this would do that to anyone.

Just as he decided to quit ringing the bell and take a tour around the property instead, there were noises behind the door and it creaked open. The safety chain stopped the door from opening more than a few inches; from the narrow crack John was able to see Molly's face. She appeared to be slightly flustered, and the look in her eyes was impatient.

"Yes, what is-" She stopped as she recognized John. The expression on her face didn't change, but something flickered in her eyes. It could have been just plain surprise, but it also could have been nervousness, or perhaps even fear.

"John? What are you doing here?" She sounded suspicious and surprised.

John felt suddenly slightly uneasy. Yes, what _was_ he doing there? Really? On an early Saturday morning when every other normal person was just getting ready to start their day, what _was _he doing here in the middle of nowhere?

John tried to keep his self-doubt from showing in his voice. "Hi, Molly, I'm sorry to drop by so unexpectedly, but I need to ask you something if that's OK."

But Molly didn't seem to think that this was OK. "What?" Her tone was as sharp and blunt as her vocabulary.

John scratched his neck. This was a bit more awkward than he would have expected it to be. "I- listen, could you open the door properly?"

Molly shook her head, never letting her gaze drop. No.

All right, then.

Oh bloody hell.

John took a deep breath. "Molly, when was the last time you saw Sherlock?" There was no colour in his voice; it was as if he had been inquiring about yesterday's weather when he talked about his late lover.

Molly just stared at her, blankly, like she hadn't comprehended what he was asking.

John cleared his throat. "You know, before he... Before the fire."

Molly shook her head, slowly. "Why are you asking me this, John?" Her voice was a bit quieter than normally and there was a hint of superficial sympathy in it. Her eyes looked very dark and deep, like a well that is too deep for the sun to touch the bottom of it.

John felt uncomfortable. How could he explain his reasons? Yeah, well you know - You said something the other day and it made me think maybe you have something to hide, something concerning Sherlock - maybe Sherlock is not dead but you somehow faked the whole thing, or stole his body, or whatever -

He suddenly realized how absolutely stupid it sounded, and how stupid he felt. He rubbed his eyes with his right hand - was he starting to lose it? Seeing things that were not there?

John raised his eyes back to Molly and did his very best to look and sound reassuring. "No reason. I'm just trying to track back his steps during the last few days."

Molly looked doubtful, then shrugged her shoulders. "I don't remember. Must have been a day or two before."

"In Bart's?"

"Yes, in Bart's, where else? It's not like we hung around, now did we?" There was visible annoyance in her voice now and John saw her glancing at her watch. "Look, John, I am in the middle of something and I really don't have time to stand here and answer your questions. So if there's nothing else-"

John felt a wave of resignation washing over him. What was he doing here, bothering her? Was it really that difficult for him to let Sherlock go? He felt tired, and slightly embarrassed.

"No, there's nothing else. Thank you, Molly." Without waiting for her to reply he turned on his heels and left.

Molly remained standing in the doorway for a while, looking after him. In her eyes John could have seen a variety of emotions - anger, annoyance, and just a hint of panic.

x

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x

She opened the door of the small room quietly, almost hesitantly. She didn't know what to expect - because of the interruption caused by that stupid John Watson she had missed the time frame in which she would have had to put her nurse costume on and inject Sherlock and Jim with a new dosage. How could she be so stupid? How could she let herself slip like this? When she was so close to getting what she wanted? Granted, Jim she didn't really have to worry about - he would be out of it for some time more thanks to heavier meds, but Sherlock - he might remember.

She slid in from door and closed it behind her with a small click. Sherlock seemed to be sleeping - maybe he had passed out because of the excess amounts of medication she had been pumping into him for the past three weeks? A small ray of hope shone in her mind as she tiptoed her way to his bed, giving Moriarty just a brief glance to make sure he was still unconscious.

Sherlock's eyes were closed and breathing was even. Thank heavens. She might have enough time.

She worked quickly and with steady hands, keeping an other eye on Sherlock as she prepared the syringe. Just as she was about to wipe his arm with the disinfectant he spoke, and his voice made her heart stop.

"Don't even think about injecting me with that..." He opened his eyes, they were pale and bright and horribly clear, and from the look in them she knew that he knew. That he remembered.

The sound that the syringe made when it dropped from her hand and hit the floor was like an explosion.

"...Molly." There wasn't even a hint of surprise in his voice.


	4. Chapter 4

On with the story!

Thanks to eyebrows2 and emma de los nardos, I'd be lost without you.

As always, any feedback is more than highly appreciated.

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"I have to say, Molly, you've managed to surprise me." Sherlock´s voice was colder than the December day reaching towards noon on the other side of the window. The light reflecting through the glass onto the detective's sharp face made his eyes seem even paler than they normally did; like bottomless pools of crystal clear water ready to drown her if she slipped even the slightest.

Molly felt dizzy when staring into those eyes. Her heart was beating faster than normal and she had slight difficulties in the simple act of breathing, but - interestingly enough - she didn't recognise panic in herself. She would have expected to experience the said emotion now that Sherlock had recognised her and her previous plan had obviously been shattered into pieces. Instead she felt calm; serene almost - remember as he might, he was still there, strapped into the bed, dead to the world, and there was absolutely nothing he could do about it. Sherlock Holmes was at her mercy, and that realisation made her head feel light and her heart thrumb in her ears.

It was a whole new ball game now.

Her initial plan had been to keep Sherlock drugged, in that constant state of not knowing who or where he was; to slowly make him trust her, depend on her, see her as his salvation - to love her. She would have had kept him under the influence of the drug for the rest of his days had been up to her; if that was what it would have taken to make Sherlock believe he was a man named Tim, a man who after some tragic experience had lost his memory, a man who would grow to love his helping angel, Rachel. But obviously the course had shifted now - he was Sherlock again, Sherlock bloody Holmes - the man who had plagued her dreams and made her chest burn with one-sided desire probably since the day she had met him.

So it was Sherlock again - the hurtful, rude, sometimes borderline mean Sherlock - who at the same time was the most wonderful, exciting, interesting and – without a doubt- the sexiest man Molly had ever come across with – so she obviously would have to adjust her strategy accordingly. But what was exhilarating about the situation was that everybody thought he was dead.

There was not a thing in the world she couldn't do to him and not get away with it; and she knew he knew this.

Which, more or less, made Sherlock Holmes her bitch.

As he laid there staring at her with contempt in his eyes, Molly, having gained self-confidence from her thought process, met his stare without a flinch. She saw immediately that her refusal to fidget or turn her face away was not what he had expected; there was a flicker of surprise in his eyes. Molly crossed her arms across her chest and straightened her back.

"Is that so? I suppose I should be flattered, then." There was none of the usual insecurity or nervousness in her voice. In fact, she didn't sound like herself at all.

Sherlock observed her for a few seconds; it was impossible to tell what he was thinking.

"Don't be." His voice was stripped of any color and cut the air like a blade.

Molly raised her eyebrows in mock surprise.

"Really? When I have managed to surprise the great Sherlock Holmes? Not many people have been able to do that, I would think." She was exaggerating in her articulation of his name.

Sherlock snorted. "I'm merely surprised you have sunk so low. Isn't this a bit pathetic, even by your standards?" He yanked his hand so that the sound of the metal clips of the strap clashing with the bed frame echoed in the room.

Molly's jaw clenched. She absolutely hated it when people - men - called her pathetic. It reminded her of her teenage years, all those tedious fumblings, the awkwardness of the moments when she wanted to get out, leave, anything -

She stopped the thought before it reached its goal. "Call it what you want, Sherlock, but you seem to have the lower hand here." Her voice was neutral but in her eyes was a vicious look.

Sherlock was angry and it was apparent in his voice, even if he kept the volume normal. "What I seem to have is the tied-down hand. Let me go."

Molly couldn't help a small burst of laughter from escaping her lips. "You really think I'm that stupid?"

He didn't reply, merely stared at her without blinking - an answer enough. There were flames of rage in his eyes now, and yet the coldness of his stare was enough to make the room feel chillier.

Molly shook her head, a small manic smile spreading on her lips. "Oh no, I have no intention letting either one of you go."

The mention of another person made Sherlock glance quickly to his side; it was as if he had forgotten he wasn't in the room alone. When he recognised the unconscious man in the other bed, an expression of disbelief spread on his face. Without turning his eyes back to Molly he just stared at the still figure of the dark man, and when he spoke the astonishment painted on his face was also woven into his voice.

"Moriarty."

The name escaping Sherlock's lips wasn't directed to anyone in particular and it wasn't a question; it was a mere recognition of the fact that he had realised the danger of the situation he had been thrown into - if Molly had succeeded in capturing both of them, there was no saying of what else she was capable of.

Therefore it started to be quite obvious that he had seriously underestimated her.

And he seldom, if ever, underestimated anything. Sherlock had underestimated John - the ex-soldier had, after all, became the most important thing after his work to Sherlock - and now he had underestimated Molly. If the extent of his underestimation remained the same, then, considering the specifics of the situation at hand - Molly would be the end of him.

Molly, still smiling a smile that failed to reach her eyes, turned to look at Moriarty as well.

"Why would I let two of my favourite boys go?" Her voice was distant, as if she were thinking something else.

Then, snapping out of her thoughts she walked to Sherlock's bed and leaned very close to his face, her lips only a few inches away from his. "When we can have so much fun together?"

The expression in her eyes made Sherlock's body tense; there was very little, if none, of the Molly he had thought he had known in there. When she leaned to him and touched his lips with her own, the touch burnt like acid.

x

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x

By the time John arrived back home, he was - if possible - even more puzzled than he had been in the morning of that day. He had been so consumed by the thought of Sherlock possibly not being dead, yet, when he exposed the idea to the smallest ray of sense and reason, it became impossible to believe. Molly had said she had seen Sherlock a day or two before the fire - which would have explained how she knew about the bandage on his hand. But, to John's best knowledge, Sherlock hadn't been in Bart's for about a week before his death - but then again, like John would have known his every movement? When he considered the odds, it did seem much more likely that Sherlock had visited Bart's after he had cut his hand, instead of _not_ having visited but Molly having something to do with his death, or - even more absurd - that Sherlock wasn't dead but that Molly was hiding him somewhere. It sounded ridiculous, no matter how John tried to look at it. It was Molly, after all - poor, lonely, slightly weird Molly who probably didn't have the capability to hurt a fly.

Right?

And yet there had been something off about her when he had talked with her that morning. Something John couldn't put his finger on; something evasive, like she was hiding something. Something sinister.

He slouched on the couch and rubbed his eyes. Was he just losing it? Was the loss of Sherlock too much for him to bear?

John leaned back and sighed. Letting his gaze travel around the empty living room, he tried to empty his head of the whirlwind of thoughts swirling inside it. He wanted to accept Sherlock's death and move on with his life; there was no other option. But for some reason he didn't seem to be able to do so - it was like the ghost of Sherlock was holding on to him, refusing to leave him be. It was almost as if there was something unresolved.

As his eyes wandered around the dim room he couldn't help himself from stopping at certain objects - the skull on the mantelpiece, Sherlock's shirt tossed on the back of a chair, his laptop...

_Sherlock is very focused on something. He has been staring at the faintly glowing screen for what must have been hours, not saying a word nor in any other way acknowledging there is somebody in the room with him. John is sitting in his chair, reading, and every now and then raises his eyes from his book to steal a glimpse at Sherlock. Looking at him makes John feel like things are the way they are supposed to be; as odd and complex and difficult it sometimes is to share a space and life with that eccentric, emotionally challenged and yet so magnificent man, John genuinely feels this is good and this is correct._

_Suddenly Sherlock lifts his eyes from the screen, catching John staring at him. The expression softening his sharp face is slightly amused and he smiles, just a bit, but enough for John to see it. The white glow of the laptop screen reflects off his skin and his eyes and gives the dark curls framing his face a silvery touch; maybe this is how he will look when he is old._

_They sit like that for a while, staring at each other in silence; sometimes words are simply not needed. This is indeed good and correct._

_Then Sherlock breaks the silence. "Do you have an x-ray at the clinic? "_

_John knows better by now than to be surprised by Sherlock's reactions or questions; with him, normal rules of interaction don't apply. So instead of asking first why he wants to know, John merely shakes his head. "No, we send those patients to the hospital." He pauses for a while, considering if it is a good idea to inquire more, and then decides it is. "Why?" There is a shade in his voice which can only be described as patience towards whatever the answer may be._

_Sherlock shrugs his shoulders. "Oh, just wondering." He turns his focus back on the screen; John waits. He knows Sherlock so well by now; he knows he doesn't have to ask again. He will reply, in his own time; Sherlock Holmes seldom leaves a topic open he himself has brought up._

_And as sure as spring follows winter, after some minutes Sherlock speaks again. "I´ve been reading about tooth identification. It is one of the more efficient ways or identifying a corpse."_

_John merely waits. It may be going somewhere or it may not; only way to find out is to sit back and see._

_Sherlock types something, click or two with the mouse, some more intense staring. Just as John considers getting back to his book, the consulting detective opens his mouth again. His voice is a bit distant, as if he was talking to himself. "I'm going to get my teeth x-rayed. Might come in handy some day."_

_John shakes his head, internally chuckling at Sherlock´s never-ending interest in any scientific method on the face of the earth. Then, deciding there has been enough talk about teeth that evening, he puts his book down, gets up and goes to Sherlock. The feel of John's hands on his shoulders is enough to make Sherlock suspect likewise; the brush of John's lips on his neck is enough to convince him so._

Why hadn't this occurred to him before?

John got up from the couch and went to Sherlock's laptop, closed and dark and mute, sitting silently on the table where Sherlock had left it before his final exit. He stood there hovering over the slim machine, hesitating to open it; it felt almost like an intrusion of Sherlock´s privacy to touch it. Granted, Sherlock would have not extended the same courtesy to John' personal belongings, but still - in this day and age a laptop can come very close to what a diary used to be, and John didn't know if he felt entirely comfortable with the step he was about to take.

Then, quickly - like it wouldn't count so much if he'd only do it fast enough - he popped the laptop open and pressed the power button.

The screen lit up and the light hum of the machine filled the otherwise tomb-silent room. After a short moment the desktop laid in front of John's eyes like it had laid in front of Sherlock's not long ago; it felt strange to look at it, knowing that it was Sherlock who had observed it last. He sat down and started browsing through the vast amount of folders and documents that were stored in the hard drive, trying not to spend too much time on those that weren't the objects of his search. Yet, when he came across a folder labeled with his own name, John couldn't help himself from clicking it open.

There were two files in it. One was a picture that made him involuntarily both blush and smile, emphasis on the latter. The other one was a text file called "read", and he clicked on it.

The simple layout of the .txt -file had the same blunt straightforwardness as the words that were written on it.

_John,_

_If you are reading this I am either dead or missing (or given I'm neither but you are reading this anyway, rest assured you will be both quite soon). I would hope my demise has brought about the same condition to Mr. Moriarty - if that has been the case, I have no regrets at all, and I hope you can feel the same._

_Mycroft will see to the legal matters arising from my death, so if everything is clear concerning the events leading to it this message bears little purpose. If, however, there are unanswered questions concerning, for example, identification - there is a folder on this laptop containing my dental x-rays, fingerprints and other relevant facts that may be useful in the quest for identification. Feel free to go through them and use them in any way you see fit._

_Last, but not least - it was a pleasure to know you, John. Truly._

_SH_

_PS You know I do_.

John heard the dry voice in his head as he read through the few lines over and over again, spending a bit more time on the last one than on the others. The pain of loosing him was strong, it cut his insides and made breathing feel like walking on thin ice - at any given second it might break, he might break, and the fall to the cold darkness might be too much for him to survive.

John closed his eyes, still seeing the words still looming on the laptop screen as if they had been burnt onto the insides of his eyelids. He sat like that for a while, recognising the pain and tackling it, determinedly pushing it further aside so as to give him space to function again. Slowly, through the pure power of his will, the overwhelming, paralysing pain eased its grip and he was able to breathe more freely without fearing that the faceless numbness lurking behind the gates leading to his mind would enter and claim him as its own. After a few moments, as soon as he felt the pain was manageable, he gathered himself, opened his eyes and started to look for the folder Sherlock had mentioned.

The search didn't take long. He transferred the files to a memory stick, stuffed the stick in his pocket and was heading to Bart's as fast as only a man on an important mission can.


	5. Chapter 5

here we go again. thank you for the feedback i have received, it really means a lot to know someone is reading and - dear me - even liking. so if you have a moment to spare, please, drop a note!

ML

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When Molly's lips pressed on his, Sherlock didn't flinch or turn away. He merely laid there, still as a stone, not in any conveying that what she was doing had any kind of effect on him. Inside his head the amount of action had an entirely different scale, of course – it was almost like the immobility of his physical being would have given fuel to the whirlwind that was his brain. And as Molly's lips continued exploring his, Sherlock's mind worked overtime in simultaneously analyzing the situation, mapping different options as of how to get out of it as well as trying to remember what had happened before he had woken up in this place, in order to get a satisfying answer to the question how he - and Moriarty, still unconscious only some feet away from him - had been captured by Molly. The same Molly Sherlock had long ago categorized as harmless but somewhat useful, and downright silly to the point of being ridiculously easy to take advantage of with a few well-placed words and an occasional smile.

But as her lips parted from his and she pulled back enough for their eyes to lock, it was painfully obvious to Sherlock that a miscalculation of the most severe kind had indeed taken place.

As Molly stared into his eyes it was obvious that she hadn't noticed - or rather, cared - that Sherlock's response to her kiss had been non-existent to say the most. Judging by her expression there was little in the world in general that _could_have moved her – in her intense stare wasn't to be found a trace of that dumb-founded, adoring gaze of a puppy looking at his master, the one Sherlock had thought he had recognized so many times before. No, there was clarity in her eyes now; it was now more than obvious that the girlish infatuation that had been painted on her features before had been just a well-rehearsed role, and now Sherlock was looking at the person behind the mask.

To his increasing discomfort Sherlock wasn't quite sure what his role in this new script with new players would be, or how it would end for him.

The blankness of her facial expression wavered and gave way to a cold smile as she pulled away and straightened herself. "I've wanted to do that for a while." Even her tone was different; there were no changes in the note, no forced lightness or good humour. She sounded almost machine-like.

Sherlock stared at her, carefully evaluating the situation. It wouldn't be wise to upset her with his usual bluntness, but obviously lying or otherwise faking his attitude towards her wouldn't do either. So when he replied, he kept his tone as even as hers had been. "I know."

Molly's smile died and her eyes dimmed like a curtain would have been pulled down in front of them. "Yes, I would suppose you did know." She crossed her arms over her chest. "And you took advantage of that. So many times. Always."

Despite her defensive body language her voice remained neutral; there was no accusation, not even hurt. It alarmed Sherlock; she seemed to be stripped bare from all emotion.

He didn't even blink. "Yes, Molly, I did." There was no use of trying to deny it. It was too late for that.

They both stayed quiet for a while, recognizing what had just been said. Then Sherlock spoke again. "What now?" He sounded calm. In actual fact he was not. The difference between the Molly he had known - well, thought he had known - and the Molly standing here in front of him was striking; if her actions would differ in the same scale it did not set a very promising forecast. She was, it would seem, capable of much more than he had given her credit for.

Molly looked at him for a while as if mapping out the different options, then glanced at Moriarty and then turned her eyes back to Sherlock. Her eyes looked dark and empty and her voice, as hollow as it was, had an awful glee in it. "I guess... I guess you'll be staying here."

A sudden wave of anger flushed through Sherlock and he couldn't help it from colouring his voice. "You can't just keep me here."

Molly tilted her head like a bird of prey observing a dying animal. "But of course I can. The whole world thinks you're dead, Sherlock. There was even a funeral." The slight softness of her voice did not correspond with her demeanor.

Sherlock turned his eyes to the ceiling. This really was not good at all. He focused on the anger he felt and let go of it; it wouldn't do him any good to be distracted by it.

Collecting his thoughts he turned his look back to Molly. His voice was now free of any emotion. "Molly, tell me - What happened? How did you get me - and him - " he nodded towards Moriarty without looking at him, "- here in the first place?" He slipped a hint of interest in his tone; perhaps some recognition - a promise of admiration - would get her to lower her guards a bit.

Molly's eyes flashed and from the subtle switch in her posture Sherlock saw he had succeeded in pushing a button inside her - she was obviously quite satisfied with herself. "Didn't expect I would be able to do something like that? It wasn't that difficult, really. Of course I had some help - Jimmy here has a lot more enemies than you would imagine. More than you, actually." She paused for a while and shot a meaningful glance at him. Then she continued without waiting a response. " We'd kept an eye on both of you for quite a while, and once you were in that warehouse, well, it was a child's play from there."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "_We_?"

Molly didn't respond immediately; she obviously didn't want to reveal too much. "Yes, we. Like I said, I had help." She sounded cautious.

"In return for what?" Sherlock had a faint idea but he wanted her to confirm it.

Molly glanced at Moriarty with a very specific look in her eyes. It was enough of an answer; the price for "their" help- whoever they were - was no more or no less than Moriarty's life. Where it left Sherlock himself he couldn't tell.

Sherlock continued with a calm voice. "Then why is he still here? Why isn't he already dead?" It was like he would have been asking about the price of milk; it didn't seem to affect him at all that the trade that was going on involved a blunt execution of a human life.

Molly hesitated a bit before replying. Then, probably not being able to resist herself, she allowed herself to answer. "I don't think it's killing him they're even after. Well, at least immediately. He doesn't _deserve_ such kindness. " She stared at Moriarty with hatred in her eyes. The resentment was so strong in her whole being that it made Sherlock wonder what in fact Moriarty had done to her - what has sparred such animosity towards Jim from IT. He stored the notion in his brain for a later use - any detail might prove to be useful.

Molly snapped out from staring at Moriarty and turned her eyes back to Sherlock. The glazed veil cast on them by the anger aroused by the criminal mastermind was gone. With a voice very matter-of fact she continued. " As for why he is still here, well, they are letting the dust settle, so to speak. Before they come and collect him. Wait for a while so that his accomplishes won't suspect anything. But why would they, really - " The expression on her face turned into a victorious grin, "Yours didn't, either."

The mention of John made an surge of electricity jolt through Sherlock's body. "John - what have you done to him?" Worry raised its head inside of him, but he managed to keep it off from his voice.

Molly rolled her eyes. "John, John, John. Always _John_. I don't get it, really. He's so... unimpressive! So plain!"

"What have you done to him?" Sherlock's voice was more demanding now.

Molly snorted. "Nothing. Absolutely nothing. He just came by this morning, stupid sod, asking questions."

A flicker of hope flashed through Sherlock's mind. Obviously John had suspected something; maybe he knew Molly was keeping him. Maybe he didn't believe Sherlock was dead.

Molly must have spotted the thought process on his face, or just plain guessed what he was thinking. "Oh, I wouldn't put my hopes there, really. He was as clueless as ever." She sounded mocking.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes, trying to spot any trace of nervousness in her. There must had been a valid reason for John to come and see Molly; the real question remaining was if Molly had been able to convince him that there was nothing dodgy going on. Judging by Molly's behavior she seemed to think she was in the clear - but then again, people make mistakes.

That much was clear.

Molly glanced at her watch. As cool and calm on the outside as she may have seemed, in actual fact she was not. John stopping by had given her a scare; if that stupid man was indeed suspecting something - which is what Sherlock obviously hoped for - she would now have to go down to Bart's and ensure that her tracks were propely covered. The problem was that the people collecting Moriarty would come in a few hours; she would barely have enough time to do what she needed to.

Deciding it was time to go she looked back at Sherlock, and saw immediately from the intense stare pointed at herself that he was working overtime in analyzing her and the situation at hand. She forced a smile on her face.

"Well, I have to take care of something now. I trust you'll be fine by yourself for a while." It was almost eerie how casual she sounded, given the situation - she was holding two men as her prisoners, at least the other one of which would soon be taken away and tortured to death. And here she was, sounding and acting like nothing out of the ordinary was taking place.

Sherlock stared at her and nodded, slowly. "I trust I will." His tone was equally out of place; completely calm.

Suddenly, in the other bed, Moriarty grunted and moved. Both Sherlock's and Molly's eyes locked on him in an instant.

"Oh, how nice, you can keep each other company." Molly's voice had a strange ring of satisfaction in it.

As she turned on her heels and left the room Sherlock barely noticed; all of his attention was captured by the man slowly coming into his sense from the drug-induced sleep. When Moriarty opened his eyes, even as dazed and disoriented as he still was, his conscious presence entering the room changed the atmosphere in an instant. Sherlock stared at him as he was waking up, and the look on his sharp face could not have been categorized as anything else but anticipation.

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It hadn't taken long for John to get to Bart's. What was considerably more time-consuming was getting an access to the files he was after - Sherlock's dental charts and the identification report done based on them. It was Saturday so very few people were working, the secretary having access to the said files not being one of them. Therefore John had to manage by himself, which meant that not being familiar with the archiving system he had very little to go with and had to use a process of trial and error in his search.

The medical records in Bart's were massive, and as John was starting the third hour of his search, this fact started to become very apparent to him. He went through the archives like a robot, not thinking much, just mechanically repeating the task of opening a folder, checking the contents and putting it away. It felt rather good actually, to be able to focus on something in that way; it gave him a feeling of purpose, of accomplishing something, and also a much needed break from his thoughts. His brain hadn't had much rest since Sherlock's death - at first he had been haunted by the memories of him and then, after the crazy thought that Sherlock was not dead after all had planted itself in his brain, it hadn't exactly got any calmer inside John's head. But now, sitting in the quiet archive of Bart's as the weak winter light was dimming behind the windows, having a task to accomplish, he finally had a small moment of peace.

So wrapped was he into the monotonous task that when he finally opened a folder with dental records in it, it took a few seconds for the information to register. As it did, it jolted his body into a whole new level of alertness; now it was a mere question of skipping into H for Holmes and he would have the information he had came in for. His mouth felt dry as he flipped through the folders - Holly, Holman, Holmer.

Holmes. Sherlock. John grabbed the folder almost violently and spread it open on the desk next to him.

In the now darkening room, in the dim light of the small lamp, on the worn surface of the old table was spread out the dental records of the man he had loved; it felt odd to look at them. There was an x-ray of the piece of the jaw bone found from the site of the fire and there was the report of identification signed by Molly Hooper. It stated that based on the evidence available, the body in which the jaw bone had belonged to had indeed been that of Mr Sherlock Holmes who therefore was now officially proclaimed dead. John heart throbbed in his ears as he compared the x-rays of the jaw bone and Sherlock's teeth; after a while of studying them it became quite obvious to him that they were a match.

Disappointment slithered inside him like a snake. He had allowed himself to hope that there would have been a mistake; that the bone found from the site would have not matched Sherlock's records. But it did, and the coppery taste of defeat rose in his mouth.

But then something - he didn't even quite know what it was - made him look again. Not at the x-ray of the bone; it was obviously a match to the other x-rays. Instead John focused his attention to the actual dental records; there was something off. Squinting he stared at the pale grey images, trying to catch what he thought he had seen.

When he saw it again it was obvious, but he still reached for the archive computer beside him on the desk and switched it on. Keeping his eyes on the x-ray on the table he stuck the USB-stick in to the computer and opened the files he had put there, taken from Sherlock's laptop. As the x-rays he had downloaded from Sherlock's laptop opened up next to the ones there had been in the archive, the proof of what John had already seen was right there, confirmed in front of his face.

When Sherlock was a child he had fell from a roof of the family country house and as a result chipped a tooth. The damage had been small, but it was visible in the x-ray John had taken from Sherlock's laptop.

There was no sign of it in the x-rays in the archive.

The x-rays in the archive were not Sherlock's. Somebody had changed them.

Sherlock was not dead.

The blood flowing in his ears made a humming sound. John put his hands on the table - whether it was for balance or for reassuring himself that this was real, and tactile, and he was not sleeping, he couldn't tell. Closing his eyes he took a deep breath, and another one, and another one. After few moments, when he had the feeling he was in control of himself again, he turned around with the sole intention of going out, getting into his car, driving to Molly's and forcing whatever information she would have out of her, he realized he wasn't alone in the room anymore.

The door leading to the archive was open and in the doorway stood Molly. From her face John saw that she knew he knew. The expression painted on her features was a strange mixture of panic, anger and at the same time, complete blankness; there was no real emotion in her eyes. Like she would have not cared, or being even capable of caring.

Had John not have the reaction speed of a soldier Molly would have probably had enough time to get away; but the years of war had given him such speed that even before his conscious mind knew what his body was doing he was next to her, stopping her attempt of escape by grabbing her - using a bit more strength that would have been necessary. She squealed out of pain or surprise; John didn't care. As he thrust her against the wall he heard how air escaped from her lungs when she slammed against it. Locking her immobile he glared at her, and when he spoke his voice left little room for argument.

"You _will_ take me to him, now."

Looking at the expression on John's face made Molly's mouth dry; she reckoned it was out of fear.

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any mistakes with the language i apologize, english is not my native - i hope the errors don't interfere too much with the story. thanks for reading!


	6. Chapter 6

Sherlock didn't address Moriarty or in any other way gave a sign of being present in the room. He just stared as his nemesis, the man who both fascinated and appalled him, slowly came to his senses - brushed off the haze brought upon him by the drugs now wearing off. As the level of Moriarty's consciousness rose, he went through the same steps Sherlock himself had - the almost violent blinking, as his eyes adjusted to the almost bright, piercing light, unfocused stare that followed as they had, and then the general disorientation of time and place - and inevitably, as reality started to gain a firm grip again from the brain that had been out of its reach for so long - the confusion, astonishment, anger - in that order - cast their shadow on the face of Jim Moriarty.

Moriarty lied still, his eyes now closed again, but from the sound of his breath Sherlock was able to tell he was awake. Still keeping his quiet Sherlock observed as the svelte man slowly lifted both of his hands as much as the straps allowed him to. As the leather hugging his wrists put a stop to the motion, Moriarty spread his long, thin fingers in a gesture that seemed to ask _"what the fuck?"_

"Don't bother." Sherlock's deep voice violated the silence of the room and made Moriarty flinch - just a tiny bit, but enough for Sherlock to spot it. An involuntary reaction caused by an utter surprise, veiled as quickly as it had been triggered.

Jim let his hands drop back to the bed and inhaled strongly through his nose; it sounded like he would have been bracing himself for something.

A battle, perhaps.

Still, Moriarty didn't open his eyes even if his eyelids quivered. The light from the window played on his face, making him look younger than his years. When he opened his mouth to talk his voice was like silk; there was no rasp in it.

"_Soo_..." One word, not a question but an acknowledgement that trailed off and immersed into the white walls.

Sherlock stayed quiet. The seconds dragged on.

A few more moments of silence followed; Sherlock could almost hear Moriarty thinking. He used this rare occasion he had been given to observe his opponent; it was interesting how frail Moriarty actually seemed. He had lost a bit of weight since that last time Sherlock had seen him; his bones jotted out through the thin fabric covering his body. The hollows in his face were deeper than they had been, and all in all he didn't look that menacing at all; but by now, of course, Sherlock knew better than to let those boyish features that trick him.

Sherlock also knew that Moriarty knew he was watching him. Even so, under the piercing stare of the man he so obsessed over, Moriarty's body was completely still; only the slight movement of his chest proved him to be alive. Like he would have enjoyed the situation he basked in Sherlock's stare, it was a game of a cat and a mouse but which one was which remained unclear to both of them.

After a while Moriarty spoke again, letting the words roll from his tongue like drops of water breaking the even surface of a still lake. "Well, _this_ is interesting." His voice was smooth and his word over-articulated. He sounded light, almost amused.

"Rather, yes." Sherlock's voice was neutral. He heard his own heartbeat in his ear that was pressed against the pillow. He wondered if Moriarty heard it too.

Moriarty turned his face to Sherlock, keeping his eyes still closed. When his position was mirrored from Sherlock's, the brown eyes flew open and suddenly he was _there_, very present, those bottomless dark eyes pointed directly to Sherlock, straight into his mind. The look in Moriarty's eyes was as clear and focused and intense as ever; there was none of the haziness of the drugs in them. It was Jim alright and he was, by the looks of it, doing better than ever.

"Hello, love." Moriarty's voice had glee in it; it was in a strange contrast to the its softness. A wry, wicked grin spread on his face. "Finally just the two of us."

Sherlock stared back into the depth that was Moriarty's eyes, not blinking. "It would appear so." He didn't sound exactly pleased about it.

"This, of course," Moriarty yanked his hand a bit but never let his stare break away from Sherlock's eyes, "Is a bit, should I say, restricting." Slight annoyance coloured his voice and made his eyes darken.

Sherlock sneered. "Disappointed?"

Moriarty's eyes flashed and the grin melted into a menacing smile. "Sweetheart, I've fantasized about you and straps, but not exactly like this." The volume of his smooth voice had dropped down almost to a whisper.

Sherlock didn't turn his face away, just met Moriarty's stare with an equal strength. "Spare me the details, if you will."

Moriarty frowned, faking disappointment. "So dull." He then sighed in an exaggerated manner, turned his face away and glanced around the room as if mapping his surroundings. "This _is_ interesting." He did sound truly intrigued.

"Yes, you said that already." Sherlock's voice was dry.

"Who's behind this? Oh no, let me guess, it's some game, it's a trick, its.."

Sherlock cut in before Moriarty had time to continue with his ranting. "Molly Hooper."

"_Ooooh...!_ Molly." Moriarty closed his mouth with a snap. "Well, that's a surprise."

Sherlock couldn't help himself from grimacing a bit. "If there ever was one." It was still a mystery to him, how he had been so off in terms of Molly Hooper - and judging by Moriarty's reaction, the surprise had been at least of an equivalent scale.

Moriarty composed himself quickly. "And where is she? I would _love_ to catch up." The way he extended the word 'love' together with the tone of his voice almost made the hair in Sherlock's neck stand up; there was genuine viciousness, evil if you will, in the man a few feet from him; and for the second time Sherlock had to wonder what it was that Jim had done to Molly.

None of the thoughts in his head were present in Sherlock's voice. "I'm afraid that has to wait, she left not long ago. Don't know where."

"Pity..." Jim's voice traveled off in a way that would have indicated genuine regret had it been any other human being. Coming from the mouth of Jim Moriarty it conveyed everything but.

The two man stayed silent for a while.

Moriarty broke the silence by clicking his tongue. Then he spoke, and his voice was almost merry. "So, Sherlock Holmes, whats the plan?"

Sherlock stared at the ceiling. "The plan?" It annoyed him that he was forced to play this game; he knew what the madman would say next.

Moriarty rolled his eyes, and even if Sherlock didn't see it, he knew it. "Surely you have a plan. With all your genius." The mock was more than apparent in the otherwise nonchalant tone.

Sherlock felt a flush of unexplained anger. Before he had time to reply, Moriarty continued.

"Oh you _don't_ have a plan. I should have guessed." He sounded bored now, and for reasons Sherlock couldn't quite fathom it made him even more angry.

He hid his anger - it wouldn't do to be distracted. Keeping his tone very formal he then said, "I know there is a plan for _you_."

Moriarty glanced at him from the corner of his eye. "Is there now? Pray tell."

"Any minute now, I would imagine." Sherlock stretched is tone, making his reply sound almost poetic.

Moriarty was visibly annoyed now, and he sounded impatient. "Any minute now what? Don't be such a _bitch_."

A wry smile made a quick flicker on Sherlock's face. The scale of Moriarty's mood swings was enormous; to trigger them was almost too easy.

He was about to reply when he was cut off by the door slamming open - just as Sherlock had predicted - and in stormed three men. They were about 30 to 40 years of age, heavily built, dressed plain but tidy, and all of them had the aura of a man you really don't want to mess with. The tallest of them had to be over 6 feet tall and had the word boxer written all over him- by the shape of his nose it was quite apparent he had taken a hit or two in it during his life. The man who looked the youngest had a striking scar across his face; a pale red line cut from the outer corner of his right eye across the cheek down to the lower lip which had been slit in two and sown together by not so skillful stitches - the bad repair work had left it somewhat deformed and gave his face a look of sadness as the lower lip hung a bit, him not being able to a thing about it. The third man didn't have any features that would have stuck out; but he had a terrible stillness in him, a one that immediately indicated that he was the one in charge of the group. All of them, Sherlock saw, were armed.

The men came by the beds and stopped there. They stared at Sherlock and Moriarty and Sherlock and Moriarty stared back; nobody said a word. Judging by the expressions on their faces and the way their eyes moved between the two men laying in the beds, they were surprised to find two men instead of one.

Then the mad Sherlock had categorized as the leader of the pack, spoke. He had a pleasant voice, deep and low, but his tone was firm and the type that leaves little room for argument. "Which one of you is Moriarty?"

The question took both Sherlock and Moriarty aback; and in the exact same time they recovered from it, resulting in a simultaneous answer: "He is."

Sherlock looked at Moriarty and saw his own expression - which was surprise - faked on Moriarty's face.

The man who had presented the question crossed his arms on his chest. He looked slightly apprehensive. "Right. Lads, I don't have time for this. Which one?"

"I'm Sherlock Holmes." Sherlock nodded towards Moriarty. "And _he_ is Jim Moriarty." He sounded very convincing but the man did not seem convinced.

From the other bed, Moriarty protested. "No, listen. I am Sherlock Holmes. He is Moriarty." It must be said that Jim managed to sound equally convincing; the gift of a madman.

The man shook his head. "All right." He then turned to the two other man. "Take them both."

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After John had forced Molly into the car using a considerable amount of strength and with the persuasive power of his gun he had had in the glove department convinced her to start driving towards her house, the realization of the situation started to properly sink in on him. Sherlock was alive; the thought was so overwhelming, so unbelievable; it filled him with such relief and gratitude he did not know to be possible. And yet at the same time he was enraged; furious to this woman sitting next to her, driving the car with a sullen, blank expression on her face. John had to fight the urge to shout at her, express his hatred, make her feel all the pain she had put him through.

But he did no such thing. With the self-control achieved through years of military training he pushed all of it behind the surface, stored the possibly destructive emotions for later. What was important now was to get to Sherlock.

John glared at silent Molly. Her mouth was pressed into a tight line and she seemed to have recovered her balance previously shaken by John's attack on her. She had not spoken a word since they had got into the car, but John didn't intend to keep it that way.

"Is he OK?" The anger still colored John's voice; but there was also worry in it. He couldn't help it.

Molly's expression didn't change; in no way did she convey that she had even heard him. There was an eerie aura on her; she didn't seem at all like the person John has met before. She was so still, so motionless; somehow hollow and empty.

"I asked you a question, Molly. Is Sherlock OK?" The demand in John's voice was more than obvious and accompanied by a small gesture by his hand holding the gun.

Molly sneered. Oh come on, it's not like you're going to shoot me, now are you?" Her voice was annoyed.

John's eyes flashed. "Trust me when I say I wouldn't feel sad about it."

"Of course you wouldn't. I stole your precious Sherlock from you." Molly was ridiculing him, and it took some effort from John to control himself.

John took a deep breath. "Is he OK?" The words were pushed through the teeth pressed together and his voice had muffled anger in it.

Molly rolled her eyes. "Yes, yes, yes, he is fine. Sherlock Holmes is just fine."

John observed her, not being sure if what she was saying was true. Then, deciding this is what he had to go with now, he leaned back on his seat and turned his eyes away from Molly to the street ahead. "I hope he is, for your sake." The message was clear in his voice - were Sherlock not OK, Molly wouldn't be either.

They drove in silence for a while. Then John spoke again. "What was the point? What on earth were you hoping to achieve?" He really did want to know.

Molly's expression tightened a bit, or maybe it was just the way the light played on her face. She didn't reply at first; just as John thought she wouldn't at all, she suddenly spoke. "I wanted him. Have him." She turned her face to John for a few seconds, and the expression on her face was so horridly blank that it seemed to drain the life out from John as well. There was no sign of empathy in her expressionless eyes; they were as cold and empty as a barren winter day. "I love him." The words were in such a contrast with her demeanor it actually convince John that she was, quite frankly, out of her mind, and whatever obsession she had for Sherlock Holmes had completely distorted her view of reality. For it was not love what John saw in her; it was a desire to own, to control, to meet a need that could not be met, a one sparked by a sick mind and grown in a contaminated heart.

John didn't have words to reply; he just stared as she turned her eyes back to the road and continued driving towards the house.

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They arrived to their destination some 20 minutes later. John ushered Molly out of the car and into the house; the impatience and anxiousness to get to Sherlock burnt his chest and made his heart beat like crazy. The thought of being mere minutes away from seeing Sherlock again, to be able to touch him, talk to him, was overwhelming, and it made time to almost stand still for John. It felt as if he was in a slow-motion film, and every second that passed felt like a lifetime.

Molly led him through the house, John getting some slight assistance in persuading her to do so from the gun pressed against the back of her head. On the surface it seemed like she would have given up resistance and accepted her faith, but John, as impatient as he was to get to Sherlock, didn't let her meekness fool him - he had seen the viciousness in her and knew know what she was capable of. He was not going to let his guard down, no matter what.

They were walking down a narrow corridor at the back of the house when Molly suddenly stopped, causing John almost to bump into her.

"What?" His voice was harsh and he tightened his hold of the gun.

"It's open." Molly's voice had gee in it and it was a bit too loud.

John reached to see over her shoulder and saw what she meant, there was a door on the right-hand side of the corridor some meters ahead, and it was ajar. Bad feeling crept all over John's body. He grabbed Molly's left shoulder and pushed her forward towards the door. "Open it."

As she did, a smallish room with two beds revealed itself. The sheets in them were ruffled, and John noticed immediately the straps that were attached to the sides of the beds. What he also noticed was that the beds were empty; there was no one in the room.

Molly started laughing, a manic, uncontrollable laughter that shook her whole body. It sounded awful, a gawking burst of pure ill will; it made John's stomach turn. "Shut up!" He pushed her into the room which didn't reveal anything new; there was no sign of Sherlock. "Where is he?" John was angry now, and disappointed; he grabbed Molly and practically shouted the words into her face.

Molly's laughter died as fast as it had emerged but the menace was still there, all over her features and shining in her eyes. "Looks like you're too late to save your man, John. They've taken them."

He shook her now, harder than would have been necessary. "Them? What do you mean? Where is he?"

"Jim and Sherlock."

John stood back in astonishment. "Jim? Jim Moriarty was here as well?"

Molly straightened her clothes, ruffled by John's handling. Her eyes looked dark and vicious as she looked at him, and when she replied there was a horrible, sly smile on her face. "Yes. And as for where they are now-" She spat the word out from her mouth, " I have no idea."

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please share your thoughts on this, am a bit unsure of how it turned out.. thankyou! and again, any mistakes with the language i apologize.


	7. Chapter 7

Sorry for the wait.. I'll try to update quicker! Damn RL keeps getting in the way.

Thanks for reading, for any comments I'm immensly grateful.

ML

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"What do you mean _you have no idea_?"

The question in John's tone was overridden by the anger that had started to boil inside him. He had expected to find Sherlock - no, more than that, he had_ trusted_ to find Sherlock - and now that he had been denied this, the adrenaline circulating in his veins started to get the better of him. The build-up had started on that very moment not so long ago - but what now seemed like a lifetime - when he had seen the x-rays and realized that Sherlock was not dead. It was then that something had shifted inside John; the numb, desolate void that had been filling him ever since he had learnt about Sherlock's death had cracked, and John had felt hope - a pure, genuine hope that had allowed him to believe he could have Sherlock back. It had been a magnificent, intoxicating surge of gratitude and happiness - and now that it - now that Sherlock - was taken from him, again, it was almost too much for him to take. The hope and the disappointment that now followed melted together and mutated into a white-glowing fury, sheer rage, almost; had John had the capability to step outside of himself for a second he could have easily noted that he had never, in fact, in his life been that angry, so blinded by his emotions.

But of course he couldn't do that. The anger and pain consumed him and blurred his vision; there was little left of rational thoughts in his head.

John had grabbed Molly by the wrist, twisting it in a way making it impossible for her to move without a considerable amount of pain. Yet she seemed relatively unmoved by this or by his anger in general; it was as if there had been a mask over her features to hide whatever she was thinking or feeling. It didn't occur to John that it was quite possible she felt nothing.

"I mean I don't know, what do you think I mean?" Her voice was a bit muffled; it could have been because of the physical discomfort John was causing her.

"Who took them? Who took Sherlock and Moriarty?" John's words were forced through his lips pressed together in a tight line; it took him all the restraint he had not to bash her head in.

Molly's eyes had a malicious gloat in them. "Why would I tell you? Even if I knew?" There was contempt in her voice as she spat them out; even as she had the shorter end of the stick in terms of physical strength she still seemed to think she had the upper hand when it came to the mental.

John's jaw clenched and the grip of his hand tightened. "Because I swear to God, I will hurt you if don't." And he meant it; never in his life before had John wanted to deliberately hurt someone. His experiences in the war and as a doctor had taught him to appreciate life, and if he ever had hurt someone it had been because of self-protection or other situation which hadn't left him with any other choice. But now, as he glared at the woman standing between him and Sherlock John suddenly realized that he _would_ hurt her, he _would_ break his principles; and the thought made him stagger.

Molly stared into his eyes and John saw she realised that he wasn't merely threatening. A hint of interest wavered in the corner of her eyes and was then gone; like she would have not only seen what John was capable of doing because of Sherlock, but also understood what it meant. When she spoke there was a tone in her voice which could have been categorized as compassion - had it not been so out of place in that situation.

"You really love him, don't you, John.." Her voice trailed off.

She wasn't asking; she was recognising. Possibly the same feeling she thought she recognised in herself; the same need, the same ache that burnt her own chest, Molly now saw in John. For a fleeting second she shared his pain, his longing to be with Sherlock; she knew how it felt after yearning for him for so long. The difference was that in the twists of her mind her emotion had became contaminated and turned into something destructive and ugly; but for a second she was able to see in John the pure, honest emotion she herself had possessed a long time ago, before the downfall of her sanity had started, and the memory of that emotion made something inside her damaged mind shift.

Molly closed her eyes. Seconds passed; blood was humming in John's ears.

When Molly opened her eyes after a while and looked at John again, she was blinking as if waking up from a dream. There was a glimmer in her eyes and it almost looked like she would have been on the verge of tears. Suddenly the silence of the room was close to a tactile; like a thick cloth that wrapped around both of them as they stared at each other in watchful, motionless stillness. She in her madness, he in his anger; both in love with the same man.

Then John, having calmed down just enough to get a rational thought in his head again, saw the change in her demeanor and grasped it with the accuracy of a desperate man looking for the last life saving straw.

"You love him too, Molly, don't you?" John's voice was quiet and he didn't know even himself if the empathy in it was fake or genuine.

Molly stared at him, blankly, and for a while John was afraid she didn't buy it; that she either wasn't that crazy or not crazy enough.

To his luck, she was.

"I do.. I _do_ love him." Her voice was just a whisper and in her eyes was a look of total helplessness; she was frantically searching John's face, looking for something John had no idea about.

John eased his grip on her a bit, causing a sigh to escape Molly's lips. Obviously his hold on her wrist had been stronger than he had realized.

"Then help me find him. Help me. Where did they take him?" John's voice was firm and his eyes didn't leave Molly's for a second. He was almost too tense to breathe; he was afraid that any second she would flip out again and he would loose any connection he had to her.

Molly opened her mouth and then closed it again; she looked bewildered. "They are going to kill him. They will kill him." Her voice was more audible now, and there was a hint of panic creeping in it.

John shook his head. "No, we won't let them. We will save Sherlock. Where did they take him?" John kept his tone as solid as he was able to, but he couldn't help the nervousness raising its head inside him. _Kill Sherlock? Who? Why?_ There were too many questions, too little time to get answers to them and the only one with the capability to do so was the deteriorated human being in front of him.

"Save him.." Molly's eyes wandered away from John's. Then she nodded vigorously. "Yes, I will save Sherlock. I will save him."

John stared at Molly, still worried that the last of whatever reason she may had had in her would disembark at any moment. "Take me to them, Molly." His heart was throbbing in his ears; it was like dismantling a bomb - one wrong movement, wrong word, and she might just blow up.

Molly turned her eyes back to him, and they had a piercing clarity in them. "OK."

x

x

x

x

It had to be said that all in all the whole situation was quite uncomfortable - every muscle, bone and joint in Sherlock's body felt stiff and unused after being bedridden for so long and had protested strongly against the sudden movements forced on them while being dragged out from Molly's house; judging by the grunts Sherlock had heard coming from Moriarty's general direction he had undoubtedly shared his discomfort. To top that, they still wore nothing but the thin hospital gowns that Molly for some god-forsaken reason had dressed them into; it made the crisp winter weather feel almost violently cold. Now, sitting in the back of the van together with Moriarty and two of the men, with the third one driving, Sherlock had time to think about the situation.

It was hard to estimate how long they had been in the van. The concept of time had, after all, evaded Sherlock for quite a while now - thanks to being drugged - but he assumed it to be something around a half of an hour, perhaps forty minutes. He didn't know where they were, either; a bag over your head makes it significantly more difficult to make notes of your surroundings, especially if you don't have a clue of the starting point, either. What Sherlock could tell by the evenness and speed of the ride was that they were driving on relatively empty, well-maintained roads; by the mild turns and lack of stops it was easy make out that they were not in any city center. Somewhere outside the urban areas, then, but not in a complete countryside, either. The van didn't have any particular smells besides a faint odor of some cleaning agent - a rental car, perhaps. The two men didn't talk and had forbade Sherlock and Moriarty from doing so either; an order Moriarty had broken by commenting the smell of the other man's breath and been awarded with a what had sounded like a relatively strong hit in his guts.

So they drove in silence. Sherlock stretched his ears to get any kind of clue from the outside world but it was in vain; any possible sound was drained by the roar of the car engine. He was sitting in the corner, right next to the wall dividing him from the driver; the other man sat on his left side, and he assumed Moriarty and the other man to sit opposite to them. He could tell that the benches they were sitting on were made of timber - temporary solution, then, and the back of the van not meant for people transport.

Out of the blue Moriarty broke the silence.

"Are we there yet?" His voice came directly opposite from Sherlock, muted a bit by the bag over his head.

"Shut up." The man sitting next to Moriarty didn't sound like he would ask again.

"But I need to pee, daddy!" Moriarty shrieked, sounding unmistakably like a five-year old brat who refused to go to the loo before leaving the house.

"Shut up." The man didn't even raise his voice as he slammed Moriarty's head to the wall. It made a dull thumb, and Sherlock felt it on his temple resting on the same wall.

Suddenly Sherlock hear muffled words coming from the driver's side of the vehicle; he was apparently talking with someone in a phone. Thanks to Moriarty's little act, the attention of both of the gangsters was focused on him, just enough for Sherlock to shift his position so that he got his ear to the wall and was able to make out some words. For a fleeting second he wondered if Jim had done his play on purpose.

Then the thought escaped him as he strained his ears to hear what the driver was saying.

_"...our way, but there's a bit of an issue... ...two of them..."_

_"..sorry boss... know what he looks like.."_

_"holmes"_

_"...am sure.. yeah"_

_"alright miss adler"_

Adler.

Irene.

Sherlock's breath got stuck in his throat.

x

x

* * *

><p>*nervous twitch* that was a bit of a surprise for me as well. what do you think? am i going off with this?<p> 


	8. Chapter 8

When the van came to a stop some ten minutes after he had heard the driver talking to Irene Adler, Sherlock was more or less in charge of himself again. The genuine surprise brought about the knowledge of her participation in this whole sordid affair had faded and given room for rational thought to enter his brain again. In those scarce minutes Sherlock had gone through the whole history between them, from the unexpected start to the unsettling last time he had met her. It had been seven months, give or take a week, when Sherlock had saved Irene from beheading; and it was seven months, give or take six days, when he had last seen her in that shabby motel they had taken refuge for one night.

The memory of Irene made Sherlock both smile and cringe at the same time. The woman. Impossible, simply intolerable; and yet so fascinating, so challenging. One of a kind, really. The fact that she had been furious with Sherlock for saving her life only went to prove that - of course Irene had been more angry at herself than at Sherlock for allowing such a scenario to have come to an existence, but the rage had been very clearly directed to Sherlock. It had to be said that it probably hadn't done much good for him to point the obvious out, several times even; but then again, he had been only in the right.

All in all, Irene Adler was not a good loser; what interested Sherlock now was what kind of a winner she would be.

When the van stopped and the driver turned the motor off, the silence felt almost louder as the roar of the engine had. All four men sat still - Sherlock and Moriarty in anticipation as of what would happen next, the two men apparently waiting for someone to let them out of the car.

Sherlock heard the driver's door opening, slamming shut and then his heavy footsteps as he walked to the back of the car. When he opened the doors Sherlock felt a rush of cold air on his skin, protected only by the thin fabric, and was suddenly very aware of how inconvenient the situation actually was. In more ways than one.

The driver spoke; the way he pronounced his words indicated he had a cigarette in his mouth. Unlit as of yet - there was no smell. "Come on then."

With that Sherlock felt the barrel of a gun on his temple. "You heard the man." The man who had sat next to him nudged the gun a bit to the side of Sherlock's head in order to make the impact of his words stronger.

Blinded by the cloth covering his face, Sherlock reached with his hand to his left side and with the support of the bench they had been sitting on, guided himself towards the open doors. What had felt like cool air suddenly got freezing as he stepped out. The coldness enveloped him like liquid ice and Sherlock couldn't help his body from shivering; he was physically weak after not eating for God knows how long and the coldness now conquering him did not make things exactly easier.

He sensed someone next to him and assumed it to be Moriarty. In his head Sherlock mapped out the likely setting; they were standing on a paved surface - a driveway, perhaps - in front of the van that was parked behind their backs. Moriarty was on his right-hand side and the two men who had been with them in the back were between them and the van, making their presence known with the guns pointed into the back of their heads. The driver was probably getting Irene, or then he was very, very silent in terms of breathing.

Sherlock evaluated the situation - he was handcuffed, at a gunpoint, freezing, hadn't eaten in days - well, at least he was used to that - and waiting for the woman who had not only managed to get him here very much against his will, but also of whose agenda Sherlock truthfully speaking hadn't a clue of. And all this together with Jim Moriarty; it didn't get much more complicated than this.

Or much more interesting.

For a fleeting second Sherlock thought about John. Where was he? Did he have any idea of what was going on? Did he even know Sherlock was alive? What he would have given to have John there right then; the only person Sherlock had ever admitted needing and the only one who had ever needed him, truly - not to solve a case or fulfill a role presented to him by someone else but needed _him_, as he was, all of him.

The thought of John was pushed away by two sets of approaching footsteps, a man and a woman's. The man stopped some meters away; the woman walked straight to Sherlock. He heard the even clicks of her heels approaching and as they stopped right in front of him, Sherlock felt her presence even as he saw nothing; she had to be less than a feet from him. Sherlock was able to smell her perfume, and if there had been any doubt in his mind it was now wiped away - it was definitely Irene.

Sherlock wasn't quite able to tell whether the tension in his body was because of her or because of the coldness that started to feel almost painful; he chose to keep it that way.

She didn't say anything. Had it not been so windy Sherlock would have probably been able to feel her breath on his skin; now he was left with the mental image of it. Then, without a single ruffle of her clothes that would have given her movement away, Sherlock suddenly felt her hand on his chest; her touch burnt on his ice-cold skin through the thin fabric. Irene held her hand still for a while and then let it slide down on his body, from the collarbone to the hip, where it lingered for a while; very light, very smooth; as if to check it was him.

Then she stepped back, and when she spoke Sherlock heard from her voice that she wasn't smiling.

"Gentlemen, welcome. If you would follow me."

x

x

x

John had been a bit unsure about putting Molly behind the wheel. She seemed to have fallen near to a catatonic state; the look in her eyes was empty and she didn't react to most of what he said to her. John had had to literally drag her out from the house and shove her into the car; it was like she would have stopped caring about anything altogether and what would or wouldn't happen next interested her little if not at all. But John couldn't very well drive himself, for two obvious reasons - he didn't know where they were going and he wouldn't have been able to keep an eye on Molly had he had to pay attention to traffic. She was crazy as a shithouse rat, that much was obvious, and there was no telling what she might do if left unsupervised. Therefore the risk of getting killed in a car accident was something John now had to take; that is, if he wanted to have any chance of seeing Sherlock alive again.

And he sure as hell wanted.

So John had put her into the car and maneuvered himself to the passenger's seat. After doing so he just sat there, for a few seconds, collecting his thoughts. It had all been a bit much, really, and his head hadn't been quite able to keep up with all the turns of the events. It felt surreal, as the possibility of your wildest dream about to come true only can - and having Sherlock back would be just that. Even the thought that the man that mattered to John the most was now out there somewhere, breathing and alive, was close to unreal.

Shaking the thought out of his head John turned his attention back to Molly. She was sitting on the driver's seat, her hands in her lap, staring straight in front of her as if waiting for instructions; there seemed to be no active cell left in her. The problem now was that John didn't know if she was faking it or not; the change in her had been so complete that it was hard to think she wasn't; but then again, how could he know how deep the distortions of her mind went? He would just have to play it as went; but if one thing was certain it was that he didn't need any more surprises.

John cleared his throat. "Molly? Let's go." John didn't point the gun at her anymore; it didn't seem necessary at the moment. He had it in his hand though, resting the barrel on his thigh - ready to act should there be a need for it.

Molly blinked a few times. Then, without saying a word, she put her other hand on the wheel and with the other turned the key and started the car; the sound of the engine made John startle a bit.

She pulled away from the house and took to the main road, turning the car towards London. Still she said nothing, and the expression or the lack thereof on her face did not change. Yet there was solidness in her presence; she didn't appear to be resigned or defeated, on the contrary - Molly seemed determined even if distant.

"So where are we going?" John felt the need to keep some kind of line of connection open to her.

Molly didn't take her eyes away from the road but John saw her expression tightening. "Get Sherlock." Her voice was as determined as her appearance.

John resisted the urge to grab her by the throat and shake the crazy out of her head. Instead, he asked with a patient voice, "Yes, but where is he?"

Molly's voice had gained a bit color; there was anger in it now, and disappointment. "I was promised him.. And they took him, they took him." Her grip of the wheel tightened and she muttered something John couldn't hear.

John wasn't even trying to pretend he was following her. "You were.. promised? By who?"

Molly shook her head; a motion more meant for herself than to John. "She promised I could have Sherlock. She promised." She was mumbling now, and John wasn't sure if he had heard her right; a big part of him hoped he hadn't. She. If there was a "she" involved, it could be only..

"Molly? Who promised?" He actually didn't want her to say it.

Suddenly Molly turned her face to John, and in her eyes reflected a mixture of anger and jealousy. "You know who. Irene Adler." She spat her name out as if it had tasted bad in her mouth.

John leaned back on his seat. Irene Adler. "Great." His tone was enough to reveal that it was everything but.

So it was Irene who was behind this all. Not Molly but Irene fucking Adler. John didn't even bother to be surprised that she was alive; the hell, if you can fake your death once, surely you can do it twice. Nothing seemed to be able to get to that woman, and now she had Sherlock in her hands - the man who had robbed her of her life insurance and, according to what John had heard, quite a considerable amount of wealth while he was at it. And not to talk of the impact she had had on Sherlock -

A wave of jealousy washed over John before he was able to stop it. Determinedly he pushed it away - it wouldn't help now, besides, it was completely irrelevant. Completely. And yet he couldn't help remembering how Sherlock had behaved, how she had obviously mattered; and Irene, bloody frustrating, perceptive Irene..

_"Does that make me special?"_

_"I don't know, maybe."_

_"Are you jealous?"_

_"We´re not a couple."_

_"Yes you are."_

_"If anyone out there still cares, I'm not actually gay."_

As it had turned out some months later, Irene had been in the right and John in the wrong; and for some reason it annoyed the hell out of him.

John turned his eyes back to the road. This would require some thinking.

x

x

x

When the bag was finally lifted from his head, Sherlock found himself in a situation that had became more or less familiar to him during the recent past - tied down. He had been guided inside a building, up the stairs and to his right, where the man escorting him had pushed him down to a bed and cuffed his hands as you can only cuff them in a situation as cliche as the one at hand was. The whole chain of events ever since they had departed from Molly's house was so old-school gangster style that Sherlock couldn't help himself from being slightly amused; but when Irene pulled the bag that had been over his head off, there was not even a trace of smile on the face of Sherlock Holmes.

Irene, after freeing him from the inconvenience of not seeing, remained standing next to the end of the bed, staring down at her apparently unexpected prisoner. The sudden excess of light made Sherlock blink, and the fact that she had positioned herself - no doubt deliberately - right in front of a window from which the rays of the now setting sun entered the room, didn't make it exactly easier for his eyes.

After a few seconds, his eyes having adjusted, Sherlock locked his eyes on hers. She was as beautiful as ever, the same intelligent eyes with the very particular glow that suggested she knew more than you did; the same pale skin that accentuated the redness of her lips and the darkness of her hair. Her body, clad in a simple but elegant black dress that was just tight enough to arouse one's imagination but loose enough to keep it working, unchanged; her posture as impeccable as it had been the last time Sherlock had seen her.

It had been seven months but it could have been seven hours.

"Miss Adler." Sherlock's voice carried with it the recognition of the nature of their previous interaction.

"Mr. Holmes." She glanced up and down on his body, letting her eyes linger on his physique, and Sherlock knew she did so on purpose; it was to show him who was in charge. "What an... unexpected pleasure." Her voice purred like a cat that had eaten the canary and she gave him a smile. It didn't reach her eyes and remained unanswered.

"I should say likewise." Sherlock's voice was neutral but the look in his eyes was not; he looked at her like one might look at a beautiful but poisonous her, scanning her. Deciding how close it was safe to get to go.

Irene tilted her head a bit. "May I?"

Without waiting for a reply she sat down on the bed, on the level of his waist. Her hands she crossed in her lap, overtly chastely for someone like her; for a second she looked almost shy. All for show, of course - there was nothing Irene could do that wouldn't make Sherlock forget who she was and how she worked; and yet he had to remind himself of this on a regular basis.

Sherlock didn't let his eyes leave hers. "I see you are well." His voice still revealed no emotion or strain; by the sound of it they could have been two strangers chatting in a cocktail party.

Irene smiled again. "Thank you, yes. And I will be even better in the near future. And yourself?" Her tone was equally nonchalant.

Sherlock looked at his right wrist, then back to Irene. "I could be better."

"I'm sorry about those, darling. But you do understand I just can't let you run around freely." She sounded so sincerely apologetic that it made Sherlock sneer.

"Of course." He paused for a while. "But, on the risk of asking the obvious, why not? What is it that you want from me?"

Irene placed her right hand on his chest. Sherlock felt the warmth of her palm on his skin, and knew that she felt his heartbeat. It was even.

She leaned closer to him, her chest touching his, until her lips were only inches away from his. "What would you like me to want?" Her voice was not much louder than a whisper.

"Don't play games, Irene. I'm sick of them." Sherlock's voice was quiet but deep.

Irene kept herself on top of him for a while, observing Sherlock's face very intently. Her hand, still on his heart; his pulse, still even. You could have cut the silence in the room with a knife.

Then she pulled away. "Yes, I can tell." There could have been a hint of disappointment in the depths of her eyes. Then it was gone and she smiled knowingly. "John, is it?"

Sherlock stared at her for a while before replying. When he did, his voice was solid. "Yes."

Irene shrugged her shoulders. She didn't look surprised. "About time." She pulled her hand away back to her lap and turned her eyes to the window. "As for what I want from you, my dear, is not to meddle."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes a bit. "With your plans for Moriarty."

Irene looked back at Sherlcok, feigning surprise. "What ever makes you think I have plans for him?"

"Molly told me that whoever was behind this all wants Moriarty dead." This time the surprise on Irene's face was real; obviously she hadn't expected Sherlock to know that. Before she had time to reply, Sherlock continued. ""But you don't want him dead. That's what you may have told her to get her to help you - by the way she behaved towards him there's some bad history between them - but I don't believe it for one second you are planning on torturing him to death as Molly seemed to believe. No, you have something else planned - what is it, Irene? You need another life insurance? You need his help with something? Why not just go to him like you did before, why this charade?"

Irene's eyes darkened and she shifted her position a bit. Sherlock saw he had hit a nerve. "Oh, you can't? He won't help you because you're useless to him without your bundle of information? So you capture him and _make_ him help you?" After his words, silence fell into the room.

Irene's eyes were burning; Sherlock had managed to push her. "Perceptive as ever, I see." She practically hissed the words.

Sherlock lowered his voice a bit. "The only question is, what do I have to do with any of this?"

Irene glared at him. She was angry but in control of herself again. "Nothing. Absolutely nothing. You shouldn't even be here, and you wouldn't if Molly would have done her share of the deal."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow in an exaggerated gesture of interest. "Deal?"

Irene rolled her eyes. "Isn't it obvious, detective Holmes? I promised her you for her help to get to Jimmy."

Sherlock looked at her, slowly. "You... Promised me?"

Irene snorted. "Oh, don't look so offended, it really doesn't suit you. Quid pro quo. Girl's gotta do what girl's gotta do." She stood up from the bed and stood next to it, looking down on Sherlock with a hint of affection in her eyes. "I was sad about it though. Such a waste..." Her voice traveled off.

Before Sherlock had time to reply, Irene turned around to leave. On her way to the door she said, "I don't know yet what I'll do with you..." In the doorway she stopped and looked at him over her shoulder. "But I must say, I rather _do_ like you there." She flashed him a smile and was out.


	9. Chapter 9

After the door closed behind Irene's back, a wave of exhaustion flushed over Sherlock's mind and body. He honestly couldn't say whether it had been a turn for better or worse to be held by Irene instead of Molly - granted, Irene wasn't clinically insane and she was alive today thanks to him - but the fact that it had also been Sherlock who had brought about the threat of her losing it in the first place seemed to not have escaped Irene's memory. Sherlock remembered her white-glowing anger seven months ago, how Irene's whole being had radiated sheer rage due to owing her life to a man who had, through beating her in her own game, jeopardized it the first place; and today Sherlock had seen a trace of that same very same emotion coloring Irene's eyes.

So it was apparent that Irene had not, by any means, forgotten; and this might turn out to be a problem. Sherlock realized the reason Irene couldn't let him go was, in addition to any personal vendetta she might have had, the fact that Sherlock knew about the whole scheme. Therefore Sherlock was a liability, and he very much doubted that promising Irene he wouldn't tell anyone what was going on would do the trick. By being here Sherlock had made himself a wild card and therefore a threat to the succession of her plans, and by now Sherlock knew that Irene was too skillful a player to leave any risk factors run free. So that much was clear - he couldn't expect Irene just to let him leave.

Sherlock closed his eyes. He felt tiredness all over his body; the events of the recent past started to take their toll on him. He didn't remember the last time he would have felt so tired, so worn - it was, in fact, very well possible that he never had. Every fibre in him seemed to scream for an exile from reality; a short moment of rest, of oblivion, was what his body needed. But it wouldn't do now, he couldn't give in to it now when he had to find his way out of this mess - preferably sooner than later.

Determinedly Sherlock pushed the weariness that tried to conquer his physical being aside and focused. So what did he know? To start from the beginning, Sherlock remembered going to the Reichenbach warehouse to meet Moriarty. He had done so with the knowledge that it might have ended up costing him his life; and it had been a possibility he had accepted. It had been more difficult than he would ever have seen possible to leave John, though; even now, as Sherlock thought about the last time he had seen John - when he himself had been burdened with the knowledge of quite likely going to his death and knowing the pain it would cause John when he would find out - the memory made Sherlock uncomfortable. It was still very new to him to allow these feelings for another human being, to accept them and even embrace them; and even if he hadn't always been the most sensitive of men, or most considerate, he had known that his death would have - had - devastated John. So he had tried to explain, left his meager excuse for a goodbye scribbled on the backside of a chinese take-away menu; but Sherlock had known then as vividly as he knew now that asking John to forgive him, or even to understand, was probably too much to expect.

But that's the way it had had to be; at least this is what Sherlock told himself. John would have tried to stop him, or even worse, come with him; Sherlock could have not risked his life as well, not after that incident at the pool. Never again, he had sworn to himself then; and if keeping John in the dark was what was required, so be it.

Sherlock also knew John probably wouldn't have seen it the same way.

But what was done was done. Sherlock pushed the thought of John away from his conscious mind - at least for now - and thought about the faithful night further. He recalled going into the warehouse to meet Moriarty and he remembered how it had felt, to walk into one's likely death. He hadn't been afraid but he had felt a certain level of discomfort with the thought; and then, just a few minutes before the clock stroke the hour of the meeting, he had sent a text to John -

_Forgive me, John. But don't forget. SH_

- And as the small beep told him that the message had been sent, Sherlock had felt so light, like all the anxiety brought about the approaching death would have been sent away together with the text. Sherlock had known that what he was doing was right, that he would free the world from the most dangerous criminal mastemind it had ever known, and if he would have to die doing so, he would do so gladly.

But Sherlock had never seen Moriarty that night. His memories ended there, as he had put his phone back into his pocket; so it must have been there where Molly - or whoever it had been helping her - had got to him. Sherlock felt slightly appalled with himself for having being taken down so easily, without him even seeing it coming; but then again, he had had no reason to expect anyone but Moriarty being present and he, criminal and insane as he may have been, had way too much flair for drama to sneak up behind him. So his guard had been down, as unbelievable as it was in a situation like that, and as a result he had been surprised.

The next memory brought him to Molly's house, even if the beginning of his time there was vague to say the most - the drugs she had been pumping into him had made sure of that. And now he was here, even if he apparently shouldn't have been; obviously there had been some mix-up when the three men had came to collect Moriarty. Obviously they had not known how Moriarty looked like, so Molly should have been there - but she hadn't returned from wherever she had left earlier. Given that the men coming to pick Moriarty up were quite an instrumental part of the whole scheme, there had had to be a something pressing, perhaps unexpected, to keep Molly from attending-

John? Could it be?

Molly had mentioned that he had stopped by and shortly after had left to "take care" of something. The two had to be connected - the question now was if Molly had managed to-

Fear pierced his insides like an icicle, cold and sharp and cutting. What if Molly had got to John as well?

_I need to get out of here, now_

Sherlock's worry for John and the frustration brought about the fact that he was practically helpless to do anything got the better of him. In a fit of annoyance he yanked his wrists, only to be remained of the existence of the cuffs with the sharp pain that followed the action. He grunted in both annoyance and pain; it was quite clear he wouldn't be leaving this room anytime soon.

But he had to; for he had to get to John.

x

x

x

The sun had almost set when Molly slowed down the car and took to right from the main road. They were now driving on a smaller, winding road through open scenery. Had John had some room in his head for something else that Sherlock he would have seen how beautiful the landscape was; individual country homes spotted the hilly open fields, and the setting sun colored everything with its particular, almost melancholic hue. But John Watson had no eyes for such things; only thing in his head was getting to Sherlock.

Molly was driving fast, probably too fast considering the conditions - the road was somewhat icy and winding, and she was insane - but John couldn't bring himself to ask her to slow down even if he had wanted to. He was way too anxious to get to Sherlock; the hell, he almost asked her to step on it.

"Are we close?" John's words sounded odd after the long silence in which they had driven. Impatience colored his voice.

Molly nodded but didn't say anything; merely pointed at a house situated on a hill in the middle of the fields they were driving through. From what John could tell in the dying light it was an old mansion, surrounded by a fence but otherwise located in a relatively open sight. There were lights in all windows but one in the upstairs; clearly someone was home.

The sight of the house and knowing that Sherlock was most likely in it made John's heart beat faster. He was so close now - it couldn't have been more than a 10 minute drive - so close to seeing him, touching him, having him back. He would just have to get in unnoticed, find Sherlock and get them out - piece of cake, right?

Still keeping his eyes at the quickly approaching house John said to Molly, "Slow down, we should leave the car and walk there." His voice was distant and revealed how wrapped in his thoughts he was; later on John realised that that was where his mistake had been; Molly had seen that he wasn't paying attention, just for a second, but it had been enough for her.

What happened in the next moment was so fast that John had no time to stop it from coming. One second he felt the car leap forward like a wild, uncontrolled animal; the second the power of the impact made his world go black.

x

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x

When Sherlock opened his eyes again, the room was dark. The sun had set, and behind the window pane in front of which Irene had stood was nothing but shapeless, mute darkness. The house itself was silent, but the reason he had opened his eyes was that he had heard something from the outside. A small, scratching sound that came very clearly from the other side of the glass; and was very clearly getting stronger.

Sherlock kept his gaze locked to the window. His eyes glistened in the darkness like they would have been light sources of their own, whereas his body was very still - only his chest raised and lowered lightly. Even if he was locked down, Sherlock still possessed an aura of a predator waiting for its prey. For a while he stayed like that, motionless and awaiting, staring at the nothingness that opened behind the window. There was nothing to be seen yet, but he could sense something - someone - approaching.

And then from the darkness that painted the window black emerged a lighter shade, a figure; first a head, then shoulders, and Sherlock realised he wast staring at the face of Molly Hooper.

Her face loomed in the dark like a small moon floating outside the window. She cupped her hands around her face and peered into the room; in her pale face her eyes were like two bottomless holes through which Sherlock saw straight into the night behind her. He observed as she squinted her eyes and scanned the room; and when she finally spotted him and found his face, Sherlock's eyes were already staring into hers. She startled a bit and then smiled, a wide, manic smile that lit her whole face into a glee.

Sherlock didn't return the smile; he actually wondered whether it might be a good idea to shout out to Irene. Then he dismissed the idea - if Molly had managed to come so far, it would probably - hopefully - be in the agenda of helping Sherlock out. He would just have to deal with her later.

Which, most likely, wouldn't end pretty.

Molly, behind the window, seemed to observe the situation and her options in terns of getting in. She was probably standing on a ladder which appeared to be slightly too low for her to reach the window comfortably. This didn't seem to discourage her, though; Sherlock saw her head disappearing for a second or two and then her hand, clutched in a fist and protected by some kind of fabric, came through the window glass shattering it into pieces. The obscenely loud sound made Sherlock startle; Molly, on the other hand, didn't seem to mind. She threw her hands in from the broken window and grabbed the edge of the sill on the side of the room; the shattered glass cut her hands and arms as she pulled herself in. In the moonlight the blood running from the cuts in her hands looked black.

As Molly made her way in, over her grunts and crackling of the glass Sherlock strained his ears to hear if someone in the house had been alarmed by the sound of the breaking window; but for now there was no sign of it. Sherlock turned his eyes to Molly who had almost made it into the room; there was quite a lot of blood now, and suddenly Sherlock saw that it wasn't all coming from her hands - there was a sizable cut on the right side of her face that was already forming a bruise around it. Older then, perhaps half an hour? Where had she got that?

She was finally in the room and stood now in front of the window, in the very same place Irene had just few hours ago; panting from the physical effort, blood dripping from the cuts and staining the carpet; and in her eyes such a burn, such flame that it could have lit the room on fire.

"Molly. Help me out from these cuffs." Sherlock spoke fast, with a lowered voice. He couldn't help himself from glancing at the door again.

Molly stepped to the bed and wrapped her left hand around Sherlock's right wrist, staining his skin with her blood. The grab of her hand felt cold and the blood made it sticky. She turned his wrist around, observing the piece of metal around it like it would have been a piece of fine jewelry.

"I know how to open this." Molly's voice was husky; when she looked down to Sherlock her eyes seemed to absorb the darkness.

Sherlock met her gaze with a demanding look in his own eyes. "Then please _do_." Sherlock's voice was not much stronger than a whisper; he was worried that any moment the door would fly open and one of Irene's gorillas would put an end to the attempted escape.

Molly let his wrist go and dropped her hand on her side. She sat down by the edge of the bed - again, the very spot Irene had occupied - and turned her eyes from Sherlock's face to the broken window and the night behind it.

"What's in it for me?" Her voice was as bare as the expression on her face. There was a smell of her blood in the air.

Sherlock looked at her, really _looked_; but all he could see was her madness. There was none of the Molly he had thought he had known; just a shell that looked the same but was occupied by a mind so distorted that no reasoning or logic could get to it anymore. Any compassion Sherlock might have had for her was for the role she had played before; and that character had apparently never even existed.

For a fleeting second Sherlock felt a twinge of sadness; then it was gone.

His eyes flashed in the dark room. "Molly, please. It will be OK. Help me now, and it will be OK." His voice so deep and soft, so enticing; it wrapped around her like open arms and pulled her deeper into the sea of her insanity.

She turned her face back to Sherlock and he saw that it wasn't only blood striping her cheeks anymore. Staying like that, staring into his eyes for what was a few seconds but felt like hours, she slowly slid her hand into her pocket and pulled out some kind of thin piece of metal; then, still keeping her eyes locked into Sherlock's, she moved her hand to the cuff around his right wrist. After a few seconds Sherlock heard a slight click; the first signal of his approaching freedom.

Without saying a word Molly stood up and walked to the other side of the bed. Just as she leaned down to the other cuff, the situation Sherlock had been worried about since her entry took place - The door of the room flew open and against the bright light of the corridor was drawn the unmistakable figure of Irene Adler.

And she was looking very displeased.

"Well, well, what do we-" She didn't have time to finish her sentence when the bullet fired from John's gun in Molly's hands split the wood of the door frame an inch from her head.


	10. Chapter 10

Sorry for the delay.

I'm just going to beg - please review. Would mean a lot.

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When John eventually came back to his senses, the first feeling that entered his still somewhat disoriented mind was panic. He recalled in an instant what had happened - Molly had driven the car out of the road, causing the accident the consequences which he was now experiencing. But what he didn't know was how long he had been out, and so he immediately feared that it had been too long and that something irreversible might have taken place. With the diligence of a trained soldier John however managed to push the worry away from his mind and focus on the situation at hand - he was still in the car, seemingly in one piece; there was not that kind of pain in his body that would have signaled severe injury. It was very quiet and above all it was dark - but the night had already been setting in when Molly had crashed the car, so he had no way of deducing how much time had passed based on that. The fact that no one had stopped to investigate the crashed car could have indicated that he hadn't been out long - only that the road they had been driving seemed to be a very quiet one, and the odds were that John could have lied there passed out all night without anyone passing by. So it could have been ten minutes or it could have been five hours; the only thing John hoped for was that no matter how much time had passed, it wasn't too late.

One glance to the driver's seat told John that Molly was gone; another one to his own hands that she had took his gun.

Not good.

Carefully John turned his head from left to right and moved his limbs. Nothing seemed to be broken, even if there was a dull throb in the back of his head and his neck felt sore; still, considering the circumstances John knew himself to be lucky. As he undid his safety belt he noticed that there was blood on the dashboard; it would appear that Molly herself hadn't been equally lucky when it came to the amount of injuries.

Grunting John maneuvered himself out of the mangled vehicle. The car had jumped out from the road and hit a big tree; as he quickly observed the situation it became very apparent to John that he could have easily died right there. Interestingly enough this raised little emotion in him; having been so many times face to face with the possibility of death a mere car crash didn't seem to do it anymore. Especially when he had more pressing things to think about.

John walked to the trunk and popped it open. He quickly eyed through the contents of it, hoping to find something he could use as a weapon if - and when - it would come down to that. Unfortunately there was nothing suitable for the purpose; a spare tire wouldn't probably do the trick and a first aid kit wasn't all that menacing. He slammed the lid shut and in the next second cursed himself for doing so as the loud bang cut through the total quietness of the night. He glanced to the direction of the house - it was probably too far for the sound to be head.

_Well, off we go_

John inhaled deeply through his nose and started to jog towards the house. The slight pain radiating from his back hardly entered his consciousness; the only thought in his head was getting to the house and getting Sherlock out from it. Situated on an open field as the house was, John was glad that it was indeed night - there was no way he could have made his way to the building unseen had it been daylight hours.

He was about halfway when he saw a flicker of light in the second floor window that previously had been dark; and a second later he heard the unmistakable bang of a fired gun which cut the silence of a night like a knife through flesh - intruding, violent and irreversible. Final.

John increased his pace to a run.

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What saved Irene's life was probably the combination of her fast reactions and the physical injuries Molly has suffered in the car crash. On the second the bullet hit the door frame next to her face, Irene didn't stop to think or re-evaluate the situation but acted with the speed of a wild animal protecting its life; she vanished from the doorway in a fraction of a section. Molly, on the other hand, was after her almost equally fast, in her eyes the gleam of a predator after its prey; it was more than obvious that she was after Irene's blood. As she made her way around the bed towards the door, Sherlock saw from the way she moved that she was in pain - a broken leg, perhaps - -and it slowed her down just enough for Irene to get away from the next bullet she fired from the door towards the direction she had disappeared into. Then Molly was gone as well, racing after Irene, and Sherlock was again alone in the room.

Sherlock glanced at his left wrist only to confirm what he already knew - Molly hadn't had time to unlock the other cuff yet. He reached around with his right hand, fumbling around in the darkness of the room for that little piece of metal Molly had used to unlock the other cuff, but wasn't able to locate it. He got up from the bed, his left hand still cuffed to the post of it; as he did a wave of dizziness flushed over him. He stood still for a few seconds, allowing the dancing stars that blurred his vision to settle. When he felt he was more or less in control of his balance again, Sherlock reached around him in the room as far as the restraint of the cuff allowed him to, searching frantically for something he could use to pin the lock. The room, however, seemed to be stripped of everything that could have been of use to him.

Another set of gunfire echoed from somewhere inside the house, directing his attention momentarily from the mission of freeing himself. Sherlock yanked his wrist in annoyance, in vain; the metal Irene had used to lock him down wasn't a cheap porn imitation of handcuff but the very real thing. Briefly Sherlock wondered if Irene used the same cuffs in her professional life; but quickly dismissed the question as irrelevant.

Sherlock slumped down to the bed. The situation was rather excruciating; in theory there was so little keeping him for his freedom, and yet in practice it seemed that it was just a tad too much.

Suddenly there was a loud noise, a violent bang that sounded a lot more louder than any gunshot could have; Sherlock felt the house shake and knew in an instant that something had exploded inside it.

_Explosives in a house? No, Irene wouldn't be that stupid. Some fuel? It's an old house, a boiler perhaps_

Whatever it had been - through the window behind which Sherlock had previously seen only darkness, he now saw more - figures of trees hovering in the darkness. Visible because there was light reflecting on them; light coming from the flames that were consuming the house pretty much directly under where he was standing.

Something had indeed exploded, and the house was on fire.

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John was about hundred yards from the house when the corner of the first floor suddenly exploded into flames together with a deafening bang. He froze for a second, taken aback by the sheer surprise of it; in the next he remembered that Sherlock was somewhere in that house and that the amount of time John had to get to him out of it just got considerably smaller.

The fire spread quickly; the explosion had smashed the windows and the flames were licking the walls, swirling out from the shattered windows like alive beings. John felt the heat of the fire on his skin now as he approached the house; the crackling sound the demolition happening in front of his eyes made sounded like mocking laughter in his ears.

_I'll be damned if I let a bloody fire kill him twice_

John noticed that there were nobody coming out from the house. It was odd, considering that half of it was in flames - but there was no movement, not any sign of life; almost like the building had been deserted. He considered for a few seconds whether it'd be better to look for a more discreet entrance than the main door; but then, as another explosion shook the ground and the flames doubled, now curling inside the second floor through the open window on which was leaning a ladder - strange that he would notice that only now - John knew he didn't have time for that.

He ran to the door, the heat of the flames now uncomfortably strong on his skin. He heard the humming sound the fire made as it devoured the old mansion; or maybe it was just the blood in his ears. The door was not locked, and John slipped in. There was no one in the hall behind it. The fire was on the part of the house left from the lobby; there was no going there and John hoped dearly that Sherlock hadn't been there.

Then a thought occurred o him - the ladder. Molly.

Sherlock was in the room above the fire.

Which left John with about five minutes, judging by the speed the fire was escalating.

John ran through the hall to the stairs at the other side of it, then up them. He wasn't thinking; his conscious mind had stepped aside and given room for his instincts to act. John was on an auto-pilot, every second of his military training leading to this very moment - to act, not to think; to complete the mission, to save the life of the man he loved.

He was almost at the top of the stairs when he heard a door opening downstairs. The sound came from the side of the hall on which the fire was. He glanced down but through the smoke that had already accumulated and now stinging in his eyes John could only see two figures making their way towards the main door. It was impossible to tell who they were; whether they were men or women, young or old - all John was able to make out was two vague shapes disappearing to the direction where he himself had just second ago came from.

But it didn't really matter who those people were; had either one of them been Sherlock, John would have known. Not seen, known.

The flames were now in the hallway, entering through the door left open behind the escaped duo with wild force. Time was seriously starting to run out.

"Sherlock!" John's shout broke in to a wild cough as the fumes entered his lungs.

There was no reply. Just the hum and crackling of the fire behind his back and the steady thumb of his heart in his ears. John slammed the door on his left open; it was a cleaning closet. He moved to the one on his right. "Sherlock!" Nothing behind that one, either - just a dark,empty room, his shadow dancing on the wall of it against the red-glowing hell that was now raging behind him.

And then John heard him.

"...John.."

John heard Sherlock's voice, it came down the corridor to the right. It was barely audible but it was Sherlock's voice; John would have known it had it been a whisper.

His heart stopped just for a second; and then he moved, which such speed that it could have been his own life at stake. John ran to the direction where he had heard him, calling Sherlock's name, and he replied again; and then John was in the room, and Sherlock was there, on the floor, his hand cuffed to the bed post, the room was full of smoke and he was barely conscious.

Their eyes met, and even through the smoke John saw the look in his pale eyes, as intense as ever, like a lazer that cut straight into his heart; and he couldn't tell anymore if the water in his eyes was only because of the smoke.

"Sherlock, dear God, you're alive." John's voice was husky and the smoke made him cough; yet no one could have escaped the emotion in his tone. He knelt down next to Sherlock, who was lying on the floor trying to escape the smoke best as he could.

Sherlock smiled at him, a true genuine smile that for a moment lit his gaunt, tired face. He raised his right hand and placed it on John's temple as if to make sure he was really there. For a fraction of a second they shared an eye contact that told both of them more than any amount of words ever could have; pure emotion, nothing more and nothing less. For a fleeing moment the fire didn't exist, the reality of the situation escaped them both; it was just them and no one, nothing else.

Had they died right on that instant it probably would have not mattered.

But the next second brought about the presence and pushed them into action. "We have about a minute to get this lock open before it becomes too late to leave. Quick. Find a piece of metal, a hairpin, anything I can use to picklock this." Sherlock's voice sounded raw, like he hadn't talked for days; probably it was the smoke.

John got up and started to search the room. There was not much to go with. "There's nothing... _*cough*_ here." Somehow John managed to keep the fear away from his voice. He knew it wouldn't take much longer now for the flames to enter the corridor; once they did, there would be no way out.

"Molly had something but she dropped it and I can't find it. Try on the floor at the end of the bed, I couldn't- " Sherlock's voice broke down to a violent fit of coughs.

John dropped on his knees at the end of the bed and searched the floor with his hands. They met only smooth floor planks. It was a little bit easier to breathe on the level of the floor, but the smoke was getting thicker fast.

"We have about 20 seconds. After which you will leave." Sherlock's voice was calm but firm.

John didn't stop his search. "You're a bloody idiot if you honestly think I will leave you now." John's voice was equally steady.

"15 seconds."

"One funeral of yours was enough." He moved around the room on all fours, groping the floor. Nothing.

"10 seconds." Sherlock's voice came through the smoke like the ticking of a time bomb.

"Sherlock, do you really want to do a countdown as your last words?" Still nothing. John was able to feel the heat of the fire downstairs through the floor.

"I love you, John. 5 seconds. You must go." His voice was more quiet now.

John's finger's met a thin piece of metal. "Got it!"

John jumped to Sherlock who grabbed the object and faster than John would have thought possible maneuvered the cuff open. Sherlock tossed it away and grabbed John's wrist. "Let's go. Now!"

They crawled to the door. The sound the fire made all around them was very loud now, it sounded almost like a wild animal; a one that was very angry. There was smoke everywhere and it was very difficult to see anymore, let alone breathe; the air was thick and hot and every breath burnt in their lungs. John knew that they wouldn't last long; he had already started to feel dizzy because of the fumes and Sherlock's somewhat sluggish movements next to him revealed that he wasn't far from passing out, either. If that would happen it would be the same as death; there was no way John could have dragged him out of the burning house, and like he had said - one funeral of Sherlock's had been enough.

_If this is it, so be it_

The thought of dying passed John's brain and then he determinedly pushed it away; he wasn't ready to give up just yet.

They peered into the corridor. It had turned from a passageway to the gate of the inferno; the fire had reached it and was now consuming it with a rage that could not be matched.

"That's not going to work." Sherlock was right next to him - John could actually feel his body touching his own - but he was barely able to see him, and his voice sounded muffled.

"No." John closed his eyes. He did not want to die, not now, not like this. He reached for Sherlock's shoulder and pulled him closer to himself. "We have to jump. From the window."

They both knew it was insanity. The whole exterior wall was on fire, and there was a rock solid paved surface underneath the window; and yet it was their only option.

Sherlock nodded. "The window is open. We can run and jump. You go first, when you hit the ground roll to your left so I don't land on top of you. And then run away from the house."

"Can you make it?" John was worried; he had noticed how weak Sherlock had looked, how his even normally so thin a frame had got emaciated. His movements and speech were slow, as if he was running out of life force.

"Yes, of course. Now go." He did sound almost convincing.

"Come on." John forced himself up and pulled his weight with him, getting Sherlock up as well. His tall frame staggered, a couch ripped through his body, and then they were moving through the fire and the flames towards the open window. John pushed Sherlock towards it, he wasn't able to see anything anymore, all he knew that he had to get Sherlock out from there, just _had_ to, the air was so hot and heavy, like liquid fire on him and in him, blasting hell all over them and then the window was there and he practically threw Sherlock out of it and jumped after him, and the fall through the smoke and the flames felt longer than anything ever had before.

And then it was dark.


	11. Chapter 11

Thank you for the feedback, it means a lot to me to know that someone is reading. This chapter is a bit short but I thought I'd rather post it now as I don't know how much time I will have to write over the holidays.

Thank you for reading!

ML

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The first conscious thought that entered was pain. It seemed to be all around; in his legs, arms, face, everywhere. Breathing hurt, blinking hurt. Everything hurt. John was lying on his back, staring at the dark night sky which had a rather odd, reddish hue in it, trying to tackle the pain and push it further from his thoughts so as to be able to function.

He turned his head to his right and saw Sherlock lying next to him, on his side, his face blackened by the smoke and visible burns all over his bare arms. He appeared to be unconscious; however the even rising and lowering of his chest showed him to be alive. A surge of relief rushed over John as he realized they had both indeed survived the flaming inferno that was still ongoing just some hundreds of yards away from them. John reached out with his hand to touch Sherlock; as his fingertips met the normally pale but now blackened skin, he felt a wild jolt of pure joy. Sherlock was alive. Sherlock was alive and he was there, just some tens of inches away from him.

As much in physical pain as he was, John didn't remember a time when he would have felt happier.

Sherlock moved a bit under John's touch and opened his eyes. The crystal-clear clarity of his pale eyes in the darkness of the surrounding night and in his face smudged by soot and dirt and blood was striking; his gaze pierced into John like ice picks. For a second or two Sherlock seemed disoriented; then he recognized John and the look in his eyes softened and his face relaxed into a faint smile.

"John." His voice was hoarse and not much more audible than a whisper.

John smiled back at him. "That was close, eh?" He felt the smoke still in his throat; it was like someone had rubbed the insides of it with sandpaper.

Sherlock coughed. "I'd say."

They stayed silent for a while, both recognizing how close death had been and how lucky they were to have escaped it. The still ongoing destruction of the mansion made the night waver with red and orange; the crackling of the fire that was close enough for them to feel the distant warmth of it filled the otherwise silent night. The lay there, in silence, sharing something that no words could have delivered. Nothing reveals your true self and emotions like coming face to face with death; and now, as they both had looked it in the eye and walked away, together, the truth of them, of what they were and what they were to each other was too bare, too strong to be put into words.

After some time John spoke, his hand still resting on Sherlock's shoulder, as if reassuring himself he was really there. "What happened back there?"

Sherlock shook his head, just enough for John to see the movement of his dark locks. "I don't know. I don't remember anything after falling out from the window."

John frowned. "Neither do I." He lifted his upper body a bit and looked at the direction of the mansion, now completely consumed by the flames. "I wonder how we got here."

Sherlock lay immobile, staring at the sky. "I have no idea." His voice was quiet. Then he continued, "I guess you dragged us here."

John glanced down to Sherlock. "Or you."

Sherlock didn't reply at first. When he did his voice was very calm. "I doubt it highly, John." He kept his stare directed towards the starry sky. "As it seems I am unable to move my legs."

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When the firefighters arrived some half an hour later, most of the building was gone. They were not left with much to do, basically just to put out the already dying flames; there was practically nothing left to be salvaged and it was more than obvious that had anyone been inside the house, they would have been dead a long time ago.

When John had heard them coming - they are never were discreet in their manner of approach - it had took him quite an effort to will himself to get up and leave Sherlock in order to get help. He hadn't felt comfortable leaving Sherlock there by himself, unable to move and basically helpless, and it was only when Sherlock had pointed out that if John wouldn't go and get someone to carry him out of there John would have to do it himself that he had agreed to go.

An ambulance was called. The firemen covered Sherlock with a blanket and told him not to move; a little bit unnecessary given that he wasn't able to - -which Sherlock readily pointed out to them.

They waited there for what felt like a lifetime, Sherlock lying on the ground and John sitting next to him, trying his best not to let his worry show too much. The fuss and bustle around them, the shouts of the firemen and the general chaos caused by the situation all seemed to be very far away; it was just the two of them, waiting quietly in the chilly night.

"You'll be fine." John's words were delivered with firmness, but the heaviness he felt lurked somewhere in the undertones of his voice.

Sherlock looked at him, narrowing his eyes a bit. "Are you reassuring yourself or me?" His hands rested on his chest covered by the blanket, the long, elegant fingers entwined; had it not been the severity of the situation it would have looked like he would have just leisurely laid himself down to the grass to gaze at the stars. He didn't appear to be nervous or afraid; but John knew that he was thinking about the prospect of not ever walking again.

John didn't turn his look away. "Does it matter?" The truth was that he didn't know.

Sherlock held his gaze for a few seconds and then turned his eyes back to the sky. They seemed to absorb darkness, appearing much darker than normally. "I suppose not." He adjusted himself a bit. "Is it your medical opinion? That I will be fine?" His voice was very even, very matter-of-fact; but in his demeanor John saw that he was, indeed, terrified.

John thought for a few minutes. When he replied his voice had a new notch of seriousness in it. "It is impossible to say. Depends on the injury."

Sherlock nodded. The expression on his face tightened. "You could have lied."

John sneered. "Yeah, that works so well with you." He reached out his hand and took Sherlock's into his own. It felt cold as he squeezed it tightly. "No matter what, I'm with you, Sherlock. Always." His voice was quiet.

Sherlock didn't reply, just stared to the vast darkness of the cold night sky that opened above them. The stars stared back at him, offering no comfort.

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The following days were a very strange time. On one hand John was grateful and happy beyond his capability to express over the fact that Sherlock was alive; on the other, he was worried, afraid and felt guilty over what had happened. It was an odd mixture of emotions, and days passed very quickly; most of his time he spent by Sherlock's bedside in the hospital.

Having gone through quite a lot physically Sherlock slept a lot; John sat next to him in the quiet room, sometimes reading or thinking but mainly just staring at the man he had thought to be dead. It was almost as if John would have been afraid that if he let Sherlock escape from his view even for a second, he might be gone again.

And that was something John wasn't willing to risk.

They had talked about what had happened, starting from the faithful night at the Reichenbach warehouse. John had made it more than clear what he thought about Sherlock's manner of handling things - his trail of thought followed very much along the lines Sherlock had assumed - and that if Sherlock would be thick enough to try to pull something like that ever again, John wouldn't bother coming after him any more. Sherlock had accepted the scolding but then pointed out that it would be quite impossible for him in his current state to go about himself anyway, which conveniently distracted John enough for him to drop the subject, at least for a while.

It was about a week since the fire now, and Sherlock's condition showed no signs of improvement. John saw that it started to get to him; with every day that passed the bedridden consulting detective grew more restless and the anxiety over the possibility that his legs might not be able to function properly again gained more and more foothold in his already overloaded mind. The doctors told him to be patient; but patience had never been among the virtues Sherlock possessed.

On the eighth day of Sherlock's hospitalization John had dropped down to Baker Street to get some things for Sherlock - why he needed a laser pointer and a letter knife in a hospital John wasn't able to tell, and he knew by now that it was very little use to ask. As he came back to the hospital and made his way to Sherlock's room, he was almost knocked over by a nurse with a very rigid look on her face storming out from it.

Sighing John closed the door behind him and looked at Sherlock who was amusing himself by throwing a ball to the opposite wall and then catching it through a bounce from the floor. The expression on the dark man's angular face revealed nothing, he looked very much like he always did; but the aura of restlessness sat on him like a bird of prey watching over his shoulder, colouring his whole presence.

It was a lovely day outside but the curtains of the room were drawn; John couldn't help thinking about the resemblance between the darkness of the room and the mood of the patient.

"What was that?" John walked to the window with the intention of letting some light into the room.

"Don't... touch them." Sherlock's tone was perfectly neutral. The ball made a dull thumbing sound as it hit the wall.

John rolled his eyes, knowing full well that even if Sherlock couldn't see it he could probably guess it. He turned around to look at him, folding his arms over his chest. "They are all trying to help you, you know. No need to insult them."

Sherlock let out a long exhale. "I take it you're referring to Nurse Louise?" Another thud of the ball. "She was annoying me."

John sighed. "Everyone is annoying you."

"Can you blame me? At least when I was strapped into Molly's or Irene's bed the immobility was not because my body had failed me." His voice sounded tight.

John walked to the bed and sat down on the chair next to it. He looked at Sherlock; let his eyes rest on the features he had thought he had lost. For John it made no difference whether Sherlock would ever walk again; he would love him all the same. But now, as he observed him, saw the strain on his face and the fear and rage of a caged wild animal in his every movement, he knew it was not what Sherlock needed to hear.

John wished he could have told him that it would be OK, that he would get better; but he didn't know.

Sherlock stopped throwing the ball and turned his look to John. The look in his eyes was very steady and very clear. "I can't do it. I won't do it."

John was puzzled for a second. "Do what?"

"Live like this. I refuse." He gestured with his hand towards his immobile legs.

John shook his head. "What do you mean? That you'd rather do yourself in? You must be joking." The disbelief was more than apparent in his voice.

Sherlock shrugged his shoulders. "What if I'm not?"

John knew that what Sherlock was saying was coming from the frustration and uncertainty he was feeling; but still, the look in his eyes was so even, so _reasonable _that it made John's stomach turn. "That's ridiculous."

Sherlock didn't even blink. "Call it what you want."

"You just have to give it some time. Be patient." John's mouth felt dry; he wanted to desperately find the necessary words to stop Sherlock from even thinking such ludicrous thoughts.

Suddenly the look in Sherlock's eyes was very bare, like a mask had been lifted from his face. They were the eyes of an animal caught in a trap, listening to the footsteps of an approaching hunter. "How much time, John? How long do I have to wait and be dependent on others?" His voice was sharp.

John stood up and placed his hands on both sides of Sherlock's head. Pulling his face very close to his own and staring into his eyes with a very solid, even look he said, "Listen to me, you git. I won't have you talking like this. You will get through this, one way or another. Period, end of sentence. You hear me? _I_ refuse to let you go for a second time." His voice was very quiet; and yet it carried with it all the strength he had in him. All the love John felt, all the gratitude he had for having Sherlock back; and all the fear of losing him once again.

There was a flash in Sherlock's eyes, a recognition of sorts; but when he closed the distance between their lips and kissed him John knew that there hadn't been an agreement.


	12. Chapter 12

Sherlock was discharged from the hospital two weeks later. He had more or less recovered from the physical injuries he had suffered, except for the mobility of his legs; in terms of that the situation remained unchanged. The doctors treating him said the recovery could be sudden and happen any day now - but it was also a possibility that it would not happen at all and Sherlock would never walk again. They simply had no way of knowing, and John saw that the uncertainty of the recovery and due to that the framework of his life ahead drove Sherlock mad; it was probably worse for him than having to have to face an absolute fact that he would not walk again. The situation was beyond his control, out of the realm of his capability to influence; and to be left to what seemed like a chance or a coincidence at best in such a defining matter was a bit more than a man like Sherlock Holmes was able to stand. Therefore most of the time the patient was on a foul mood, snappy and irritated; John tolerated it because he saw how difficult it was for Sherlock to even try to come to terms with his new condition.

Sherlock hadn't talked about his threat of taking his own life anymore, but John observed him constantly, worried that he might do something if his frustration would get the better of him. At the moment it appeared, however, that Sherlock had fallen into a state of passive resentment more characterized by anger and annoyance than giving up. As long as Sherlock was angry he had fire in him; the day he would be unmoved by the situation John knew he would really have to worry. Even so, John had still hid his gun and got rid of all chemicals - there had been a lot in the flat - that Sherlock could have used to harm himself. Of course John knew that if he really wanted to, Sherlock could surely find a way to get an access to any necessary equipment; but John still felt he needed to make as difficult as possible for him.

The first day back in Baker Street hadn't been what one would call easy. The flat was not exactly accessible given the steep flight of stairs one was required to ascend before getting into it; and Sherlock, not being used to taking help from anyone didn't exactly take it well having to have to do so. It appeared that this was what bothered Sherlock the most in his current condition, being forced to accept help from others; John could only hope that with time this would get easier for him - but somehow, he wasn't convinced.

So he was left with the hope that Sherlock would magically recover; if he wouldn't, well, it wouldn't be pleasant times ahead.

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It was late afternoon. Sherlock and John were sitting in the living room of Baker Street, John reading the newspaper and Sherlock doing something on his laptop. The atmosphere in the room was somewhat calm as Sherlock had been on a slightly better mood that day - meaning that he had managed full sentences instead of grunts and other such length-wise challenged noises he had mostly used when communicating. As they were sitting there in the silent room, the rays of the afternoon sun filtering in through the windows that would have required washing, it felt for a moment that everything was OK again; or at least that it could be. Every now and then John raised his eyes from his book and stole a glance at the dark, silent figure completely focused on the screen in front of him. It was partly to check on him, partly because he could; it gave John a sense of peace to see how the soft sunlight cast shadows on Sherlock's sharp features and how his shoulders and chest moved under the thin fabric of the pale gray t-shirt he was wearing . He was very well aware that Sherlock probably knew he was looking at him even as he appeared to be very concentrated on whatever he was doing; this was why John didn't bother to turn his look away when Sherlock caught him by lifting his own eyes from his laptop just as John had been staring at him.

Sherlock's eyes locked into John's; and still, after all this time and all that they had shared both physically and mentally, it still sent a feeling not far from an electric shock through John's whole body. The look in Sherlock's eyes was calm, almost relaxed, and when he caught John's eyes and recognized the feeling in them, the same rush of energy that tingled in John's body reflected in his own.

"Something the matter, John?" It was remarkable how normal he sounded compared to how he had been ever since the accident.

John shook his head a bit. "No. Just thinking."

Sherlock closed his laptop with a small snap and placed it on the table next to him. The muscles and joints of his arms moved under the bare skin that had recovered from the burns. As he had put the laptop away, Sherlock leaned back in his wheelchair, crossed his long fingers and focused his stare on John with an intensity Freud would have been proud of. "About what?"

John, slightly surprised but also pleased about Sherlock's apparent good - or at least communicative - mood, put his book down as well. "You. Us. Life. How glad I am to have you back." He kept his eyes on Sherlock's.

Sherlock cocked his head a bit. It made his hear, which was a bit too long to be considered traditionally neat, move a bit. "Even like this?" There was no insecurity in his voice and the look in his eyes was steady; and yet John knew that he wasn't joking. He really needed to know.

John stood up from his chair and walked to Sherlock, kneeling down next to the wheelchair. He took his hands into his own, very tightly, and hoped that through his touch Sherlock could feel at least a fraction of how much he meant what he said next. "I love you. No matter what. You should know that by now, with all you deductive skills." John's voice was firm and his words delivered with such certainty that it left no room for argument.

Sherlock observed him for a while as if weighing what he had said. "But if I stay like this... It won't be the same. I can't..." His voice traveled off.

John shook his head and squeezed his hands. "I don't care. And besides, you can be better tomorrow, the doctors said so."

Sherlock nodded, slowly, but didn't say anything. It was impossible to read what was going on behind his eyes; but the John felt how the hold of his hands tightened.

They sat like that for a while, in silence, their hands locked together; either one of them didn't have the need to say any more on that moment. Sometimes silence is more telling than any words ever could be.

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On the following day, thanks to Sherlock's somewhat improved state of mind, John had felt comfortable stepping out for a moment. He had been asked to go and give his official statement of what had happened on the night the mansion has burned down - the police were naturally quite interested in any pieces of information they could get concerning the whereabouts of Moriarty, and even if John had already told them that he had only seen two indistinguishable figures escaping the fire and that he had no idea whether it had been Molly, Irene or Moriarty or someone else entirely, the police still insisted he would come down and give his information on the record. As Sherlock appeared to be safe enough to be left by himself, John had finally agreed, and left Baker Street soon after breakfast.

It was about an hour after John's departure. Sherlock was sitting by the window, reading a medical journal that had a rather interesting article about conditions similar to his own when the door of the room opened. He stopped reading but didn't lift his eyes from the magazine; yet there was a subtle change in his demeanor, a one the person standing in the doorway surely but yet said nothing. By staying silent the visitor caused the atmosphere of the room shift in a blink of an eye - now the silence of the room was no longer an ordinary silence but the type that is chosen and therefore bears a meaning; and to break that kind of silence is very different thing to do than breaking an ordinary kind of silence.

Sherlock knew who his guest was before any words were said; and yet the voice that turned the deliberate silence into something else made him almost flinch.

But just almost.

"I heard." The voice was soft and had a hint of remorse in it, so rare for this particular voice. So unheard of, actually, that it took Sherlock a few seconds for the notion of it to register - as it did and he recognized the emotion it raised only annoyance in him.

When he replied he still didn't look at the person who had entered. His voice was cold. "And you came to pay your condolences?"

The footsteps approached and Irene entered his field of vision. Without waiting to be offered she sat down on the chair opposite to him, as elegant and stylish as ever; the only thing different in her was the look in her eyes. They seemed darker than before, and the emotion reflecting from them could have only been categorized as sadness. Sadness and shame.

She stared at Sherlock for a while, in a very frank manner; allowed her eyes travel on his body, on the immobility of him, and then finally locked her gaze into his eyes. "So it is true.." Her voice traveled off. The redness of her lips was not complimented with a smile.

Sherlock met her stare with an unwavering steadiness. "It is. I would offer you tea but you would have to make it yourself." His voice revealed just the slightest amount of the anger that he felt. He was angry that she had came; partly because she wasn't entirely innocent when it came to his current state, partly because he wasn't yet quite comfortable with people seeing him like this.

Irene paid no attention to his feigned courtesy. Never letting her eyes leave his she leaned forward towards him and placed her hand on his. "I am sorry, Sherlock. I really am." She did sound genuine.

Sherlock pulled his hand away, slowly and very deliberately. The look on his face never changed. "I don't want your apologies, and I don't want your pity. If you have said what you came here to say, would you please leave. Now." His voice was perfectly calm.

Irene flinched, just a little bit but enough for Sherlock to notice. She glanced down and then raised her eyes back to his. "I understand you are angry with me, and you have every right. I just wanted to.. If there is anything I can do for you..."

Sherlock shook his head. "Just leave, Miss Adler. That is what you can do for me." His voice still revealed no emotion.

Irene nodded and stood up. She made her way to the door, slowly; just as she reached for the handle, Sherlock's voice stopped her.

"Actually, there is something you can do for me." His voice was a bit softer now.

Irene turned around. "Anything." The word wasn't much more than an exhale; in the depths of her eyes Sherlock saw how desperately she needed to do something for him.

Sherlock nodded towards her bag. "Give me your gun."

Irene opened her mouth to reply; Sherlock cut her off before she had a chance to protest. " And don't say you don't have one, it is quite obvious by the relation between the weight and size of your bag, combined with your what Id expect to be quite shaky a situation in terms of your personal safety."

Irene just stared a him, the expression on her beautiful face slightly uncertain and somewhat alarmed.

Sherlock smiled to her a bit, but the smile was cold and didn't reach his eyes. "It really is the least you can do, miss Adler." His words sunk into the silence of the room like stones thrown in a still lake.

A few seconds of silence followed. During these Irene scanned him thoroughly, as if figuring out if Sherlock wanted the gun to shoot her head off or for something else. Sherlock met her stare, the look in his eyes calm and allowing her to see that he bore no actual hostility towards her; allowed her to come to the conclusion of what he would use the gun for by herself.

When she realized his agenda her face sunk and a shadow was cast over her delicate features. There was a new kind of sadness in her eyes now, but there was also understanding - the acknowledgment of what it meant for Sherlock to be trapped by his own body like this. Then, without saying a word, she reached her hand into her bag and pulled her gun out, placing it on the coffee table next to her.

There could have been tears in her eyes; but it also could have been just a trick played by the reflection of light.

She looked at Sherlock and smiled a small, sad smile. "Goodbye, Mr. Holmes." Her voice was soft like the touch of her hand on his skin would have been.

Sherlock gave a nod of goodbye. "Goodbye, Miss Adler."

And with that, the woman was gone.

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He tested the weight of the gun in his hand. It felt very heavy, very solid; it definitely had a sense of finality in it. It was almost bizarre how this particular weapon seemed so different from the numerous others he had had in his hands during the course of his life, like it would have been crafted especially for him, for this moment and for this purpose. It would be this gun that would end his life if he would so choose; the weight of this object would be the last thing his hands would ever feel. The metal felt both hot and cold at the same time, and the velvety lustre of the black surface complimented the perfect roundness of the barrel beautifully .

Sherlock put the gun on his lap and wheeled himself to the window. The sun was at its highest and the shadows were short.

It was the brightest hour of the day; but it could also be the darkest.

All he had to do was to decide.

* * *

><p>I honestly don't know if I should just leave this story here. What do you think? Sorry about the mistakes with the language, not a native speaker and can't keep a beta ... Hope the errors don't bother too much. For any feedback I am very grateful.<p>

ML


	13. Chapter 13

Hey ho, here we go. I'm taking some artistic liberties in terms of medical stuff here.

And also, if you're not a fan of ...graphic things... between two men, I would suggest looking elsewhere.

Started a new fic as well called Nothing Happens to Me, if you like my writing perhaps have a look at that and tell me if you would like me to continue it?

Thank you for all feedback, it really does mean a lot to me.

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It was already evening when John returned to Baker Street. The sun was setting and the shadows were long; the elongated shapes of the lampposts striped the street as he made his way towards the flat.

It had taken John much longer in the police station than he would have been happy with, but he had also learnt some interesting information. According to a few eyewitnesses and some surveillance camera footage a woman and a man resembling quite unmistakably the notorious Ms. Adler and Mr. Moriarty had been spotted in the Victoria station some time after the fire; so it had been the two of them John had seen escaping from the flames.

Which meant that Molly was most likely dead; and it also meant that Moriarty was still around. Something that John couldn't say he was too ecstatic about, but on the other hand; maybe it could be a reason enough for Sherlock to keep fighting.

Lost in his thoughts John had arrived to the flat. To his surprise - and slight worry as well - he noticed that there were no lights in the living room windows.

_He's probably just asleep.. Surely_

But the unpleasant feeling had already gripped his insides with a grasp so strong it was impossible to ignore it. With haste he opened the door and stepped inside. As soon as the door closed behind his back, the complete silence of the flat became very obvious to John. There was not a single sound to be heard but only watchful, expectant quietness that swallowed him whole; the similarity of the silence to that of a tomb did not escape John.

Shaking the thought he ascended to the second floor, leaping two rises with one step. When he opened the door leading to the flat it took him a few seconds for his eyes to adjust to the dimness of the room; but for some reason he didn't want to turn the lights on. Perhaps on some level of his mind he was afraid that something had happened, that Sherlock had somehow managed to pull his threat off; were that the case, his unconscious self probably wanted to push the moment of learning that knowledge just a few seconds further.

After a short moment, as his eyesight had adjusted to the lack of light, John spotted Sherlock. He was sitting in an armchair, facing the window - odd that John wouldn't have noticed him - and he appeared to be very still.

_Too still_

There was a brief moment, perhaps only a second, during which the possibility that Sherlock might be dead seemed very real to John. During that fleeting fraction of time he was convinced of it, more than convinced; the certainty of it clenched itself around his heart with its ice-cold grip, causing it almost to stop beating. His breath got stuck in his throat and he felt nauseous; and then the moment passed and he knew nothing was for certain, as far as John knew Sherlock was only sleeping, and he gained back his ability to move.

With a feeling that could have perhaps been categorized as dread but slightly milder he walked to him, quietly. The carpet absorbed the most of the sound of his footsteps, resulting only in dull thuds. The distance to the window seemed longer than normally, and he noticed himself slowing his pace down as he was approaching the armchair Sherlock was sitting in.

John stopped next to the chair. Sherlock still hadn't moved one bit and it was too dark to see whether his chest was moving or not. His eyes were closed and his head was resting on the tall backrest.

Slowly, ever so slowly John reached with his right hand and and placed it on Sherlock's shoulder. His fingers lightly touched the curve where shoulder turns into neck, meeting the bare skin over the neckline of the t-shirt he was wearing.

The skin of his neck was cool; but it was not cold. As John felt the beating of Sherlock's heart in the tip of his fingers, a wave of relief washed over him; and only then John noticed that he he had been holding his breath. As he released it with a long, deep sigh, Sherlock opened his eyes.

"Checking my pulse, John?" There was a slight hint of amusement in his otherwise raspy voice.

John smiled a bit and cupped his hand on the side of his bare neck, stealing a feel of his skin under his hand. Then, without saying a word, John moved his hand upwards and slid it behind Sherlock's head, now firmly resting on the spot where the skull meets the neck, and leant down to kiss him.

Their lips met and locked together in a kiss; at first gentle, almost careful. Then gaining more strength, more passion, the insatiable hunger adding to the passion that was quickly building up between them. They devoured each other, it had been so long since the last time they had kissed like this, and it didn't take long for John to start to feel the effects of Sherlock's hungry lips on his in terms of the focus of his circulation.

Reluctantly John broke the kiss. His breathing was a bit heavier than it had been and only now he noticed that Sherlock's right hand was behind his neck, his determined hold not allowing John to pull himself away.

"Something the matter?" Sherlock's voice was not much more than a whisper and John could feel his lips brushing on his cheek when he spoke.

He had to swallow. "No, it's just..." John's voice was thick. Sherlock's smell was intoxicating, it made his insides burn; he hadn't realized how much he had missed this, this man - and now that he was here again, so close, the taste of him on his lips and the feel of his skin under his hand - it was dizzying, and it most definitely was a turn-on.

Sherlock's hand on the back of his neck guided John's head back to another kiss. He couldn't have resisted even if he had wanted to, and truth be told he most certainly didn't. The desire built up like a fire fed with gasoline, consuming and impossible to hold back. John's erection was not a mere hint anymore and between the kisses he managed to breathe out some sparse words. "Sherlock.. We can't..."

Sherlock's lips parted from his and he murmured, "_I _can't, John." More lips, more tongue, Sherlock's hands now travelling on John's body and pulling him closer. "There seems to be nothing wrong with your abilities."

Sherlock's hands were now on his hips, pulling them closer and thus forcing John to straighten himself. With an astonishing speed Sherlock had opened his pants; a second later they were dropped together with his underwear, freeing his indeed very able erection.

John sighed as he felt Sherlock's breath on his exposed member and shivered as his long fingers wrapped around it. The touch of his hand was cool on the hot skin, and as Sherlock started to stroke the length of him John had to place his right hand on the backrest for support. When Sherlock took him in his mouth a moan of pleasure escaped John's lips; he bent his head backwards, pushing his hips closer to Sherlock and allowed himself to get lost in the pure pleasure his lover was giving him with his skillful touch.

The way Sherlock gave head was nothing like John had experienced with anybody else. Truth be told most things were, but John very vividly recalled the first time Sherlock had done so - John had came faster than he had even thought possible. Sherlock seemed to know exactly what to do and when so as to trigger John in a way that no one ever had; and he was also able to read him so that John was completely on his mercy. If Sherlock so chose he could slow down just enough _just _as John was about to come, pulling him slightly back and keeping him on the verge of orgasm; and then, when Sherlock saw fit, he would do something with the joint effort of his mouth and hands that would make John explode in a second.

Now, as he was enjoying the sensations Sherlock was sending through his body after such a long time, John felt it was almost too much for him to take. It felt amazing, Sherlock's mouth and lips and hands, and John didn't even try to control the muffled cries of pleasure which were evoked in him by what Sherlock was doing. John's right hand was gripping the backrest of the chair and the other one was behind Sherlock's head, his dark hair between John's fingers, moving with the rhythm of his head.

John could feel himself approaching the climax, it burnt inside him and made him tighten his hold on Sherlock's head. Sensing this Sherlock fastened his rhythm, sucking and stroking his aching erection which such skill and precision it started to make John's knees weak.

"Oh God, don't stop, don't..." John´s words were lost in his heavy breathing.

And then he felt Sherlock doing something with his tongue and that was all he needed, the release inside him broke out and the power of his orgasm shot through his body from head to toes, making him groan loudly. His back arched as his every muscle tensed and then relaxed; had John not been holding on to the chair he would have fell to the floor.

For a minute John stood there regaining his strength, breathing heavily, his head hanging and right hand supporting his shaky legs. Sherlock was looking at him, smiling wryly, his right hand still resting on his hip.

After a while, as John had returned to a level of somewhat normal brain function, he lowered himself enough to rest his forehead against Sherlock's.

"You nearly killed me." John's voice was very raspy but the smile that was on his face coloured it.

Sherlock chuckled. "Glad to oblige."

John straightened himself and pulled his pants up. He felt light in the head as he often did after an orgasm, and this particular one had been exceptionally intense. He pulled a chair for himself and sat down with a sigh. "That. Was. Amazing."

Sherlock grinned. "Well, to be honest, it was partly an experiment on my part."

John looked puzzled. "Experiment?"

"Yes. I read an article about unexplained paralysis - such as mine appears to be - and it said that in some cases extreme stimulation has triggered the nervous system back into function. So I figured sexual arousal might do the trick." Sherlock's voice sounded relaxed.

John was immediately alerted; he leant forward towards him with an expectant look on his face. "Did it?"

Sherlock looked down on his legs. "No, unfortunately it didn't."

John slumped back down to his chair. "Oh."

Sherlock didn't look or sound disappointed at all. "That's quite alright, I have another option in mind. I just rather tried the more pleasant one first."

John raised his eyebrows in an unworded question.

Sherlock turned a bit to his left and reached for an object on the table next to him. In a second John realized it was a gun; in the next second he was standing up, ready to grasp the weapon from Sherlock's hands.

"Where did that come from?" John's voice was sharp; there was also a hint or fear in it.

Sherlock looked at him with a very steady and calm look on his face. "Don't worry, I'm not going to shoot myself in the head. I could have done that already."

John had to agree, so he sat back down; but his alert didn't go fully down. He just looked at Sherlock, then at the gun, then back to Sherlock. "Where did you get that?" He repeated his question with a tone bit calmer.

Sherlock weighed the gun in his right hand. "Irene Adler." He pronounced her name very slowly and very articulate.

John's surprise was apparent on his face. "She was here? Wait, I was suppose to tell you - those two people I saw escaping the fire - it was-"

"Irene and Moriarty." Sherlock completed the sentence for him, switching the gun into his left hand.

"How did you know the other one was Moriarty?" John wasn't really surprised that he did; but he still wanted to know.

Sherlock continued toying with the gun in a manner which quite frankly made John slightly unease. "No other option, really. It couldn't have been Molly because Molly tried to kill Irene for what she thought was breaking the deal they had, and there were none of Irene's gorillas at present - had there been she wouldn't have come alone upstairs when she heard the noise Molly made when she came to free me. So there were only the five of us at present when the fire started, and my guess is that Molly was taken down by the explosion that started it in the first place. Which leaves Irene and Moriarty the ones who managed to escape."

John nodded. "They were seen in Victoria." Then, with a slightly more cautious tone, he added, "So she came here? And gave you that?"

Sherlock took the gun again in his right hand and removed the safety. "Yes. Which allows me to experiment on extreme stimulation."

Before John had time to reply or do anything, Sherlock pointed the gun towards his right foot and fired.

The bang of the gun made John's ears ring. He sprung up from his chair, jumped to Sherlock and grabbed the gun from his hand. "You idiot! Did you just shoot yourself?" He was yelling, partly because of the shock caused by his action and partly because he couldn't hear anything.

Sherlock had a wide smile on his face. He grabbed John's left wrist as he had turned around to put the gun away.

"I did. And John, it hurts like a motherfucker."


	14. Chapter 14

Forget Me Not - Epilogue

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It took a decent amount of explaining to convince the police why Sherlock had a bullet hole in his foot. As the protocol was, two officers were alerted to the hospital like every time a gunshot victim was brought in, and once they started questioning Sherlock wad had happened, it turned out that placing the blame wasn't as easy as one might have thought. At first they assumed it had been John who had pulled the trigger and thought the incident to be a case of domestic violence and that Sherlock was merely trying to protect John out of fear; it was only when Sherlock called Lestrade and asked him to tell the eager officers that John did not, indeed, abuse him, that they bought his story of shooting himself. They left feeling rather embarrassed with themselves - something that wasn't exactly helped by the uncontrollable burst of laughter that escaped both John and Sherlock as the door closed behind the officers' backs.

Sherlock had shot himself neatly in a place where the damage wouldn't most likely be permanent; of course the wound would take some time to heal, and he would be limping for quite a while, but somehow that didn't really seem to matter. John, as absurd as he found Sherlock's behaviour to be, couldn't argue that it hadn't worked; and even if he tried to scold him for being so irresponsible, seeing Sherlock moving his legs made it quite difficult for him to keep a straight, stern face. Naturally Sherlock would have some physiotherapy ahead in addition to the recovery of the gunshot wound, and he wouldn't be jumping rooftops for a while, but the doctors said that they saw no reason why his recovery wouldn't be complete with time.

So all was well in the world, or at least better than it had been for a really long time; and at times John couldn't help feeling that it was just a dream. What if he was just sleeping, what if in the real world Sherlock had died in the Reichenbach warehouse fire and any moment now John would wake up? But then looked at Sherlock, or reached out to touch him, and he figured that if it was a dream he could just as well enjoy it while it lasted.

Sherlock, on the other hand, was of course relieved over the return of the mobility of his legs. He would never tell John how close he had came to killing himself during that long afternoon, after Irene had left and provided him with the means for it - John didn't need to know that he had had the barrel of the gun in his mouth and his finger on the trigger; that he had sat like that in the dimming light of the setting sun much longer than he now cared to think, every muscle in his body tense except for the one that would have ended his life.

During that afternoon Sherlock had thought about his life, how it had been and how it would be if he would never walk again. He had thought about what would happen if he would die, how it would affect John and Mrs. Hudson; and he had thought what, if any, reasons he might have to continue a life that was only halfhearted, a one he thought to be impossible to live to the fullest. Sherlock knew that Moriarty was still around, and he had wondered if it would be giving up if he would kill himself now, letting Moriarty win; but to his surprise he hadn't really cared about that. Sherlock wasn't the type of man who would have felt he owed something to the world; he felt no responsibility in terms of fighting the good fight. It merely satisfied him - well, more than that, it fulfilled a need in him; but he had never felt obliged towards solving mysteries, and Sherlock knew that in some other dimension he could have just as well been on the other side of the line. So as much as he wanted to beat Moriarty and rid the world of him, it simply wasn't enough of a reason; he would have to find another one or pull the trigger.

For a few seconds the latter option had seemed obvious; but something had still stopped him from making the final move. It wasn't that he would have been afraid to die, but on that moment, coming face to face with the decisive second and not having a single valid reason not to pull the trigger, Sherlock had realized very clearly and very decisively that he simply didn't _want_ to die. There was no specific reason and there were a million reasons; there was this flat, there were all the crimes to be solved, there was London, there was the skull on the mantelpiece and that stranger walking their dog on the street; and of course there was John.

As Sherlock had slowly pulled the gun out from his mouth and put it back to the table next to him, he had realized that probably for the first time in his adult life he felt he had something that mattered; something that remained even if everything else would fall. He had something he could lean on, trust on, give his life for; something that would hold him together in a way nothing else ever had. Sherlock had realized that for the first time ever he was content, at least as much as he ever could be; and he couldn't let that go to waste by taking his own life.

So maybe he wouldn't walk again; at least he was alive. At least he had all this, and it was more than he ever thought he could have.

At least he wanted to live.

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Later, when Sherlock was discharged from the hospital - again - and they were back at Baker Street, John found him to be considerably more cooperative a patient than the first time around. Sherlock didn't complain when he had to have John to help him up the stairs - even if he was walking, he wasn't completely recovered yet. On the contrary, Sherlock seemed to be happy to accept his help. John figured it to be a passing phase caused by the relief brought about the start of his recovery, but something seemed to be a bit different in Sherlock as a whole. As days passed, the change, whatever it was, didn't; there was definitely something in Sherlock that had altered.

In most ways the consulting detective was as before - he was still easily irritated, impatient, lacked social skills and insisted on the last word - in fact, nobody else probably saw any change in him. But there were times when John caught a glimpse at him when Sherlock didn't see him looking; and that subtle difference, visible only to the eyes of the man who loved him, was that there was a sense of calm in his demeanor. Like a spring inside Sherlock would have been loosened, just a little bit - just enough for his shoulders to relax or the frown between his eyes to soften. John saw it, and it made him smile.

On one evening, about two weeks after the incident with the gun, as they were lying naked on the floor of the living room after what can only be categorized as damn good shag, John asked him the question which had been circling in his mind for a good while.

"Why didn't you?" John was lying on his back as was Sherlock, their still somewhat sweaty bodies side to side, touching each other in the most pleasant way.

Sherlock yawned. "Why didn't I what?"

John lifted his upper body and, leaning on his elbow, turned his face to his lover. "Shoot yourself."

Sherlock lifted his eyebrow in an exaggerated manner. "Would you have preferred me to?"

John sneered. "Don't be a twat. I'm interested, what kept you from blowing your brains off?"

Sherlock was about to say something but then closed his mouth with a snap. It was probably the first time John had ever seen that to happen, Sherlock hesitating to say something. He stayed silent for a while, first looking at John hovering above him and then turning his eyes to the ceiling.

After a while he looked back at John, the expression on his face impossible to read. "Would you mind if I rather not say?" Sherlock's voice was almost gentle.

John looked surprised; this was very unlike of Sherlock. "Oh, well, sure." He lay back down. "I was just interested." He tried not to sound taken aback; and he almost succeeded in it.

Almost.

Sherlock's face appeared in John's field of vision as he in turn lifted his upper body from the floor. "John, it's not like that." His pale, clear eyes looked serious as they observed John´s face from a close distance.

John stared at him for a while, trying to figure out _how_ it was, then. Soon he found that to be quite impossible a task to accomplish, so he just slightly shrugged his shoulders. "OK." If Sherlock didn't want to say, fine.

With the grace and speed of a cat Sherlock maneuvered his naked, warm body on top of John's and pinned his head between his hands. His face very close to John's and his eyes fixed into his he said, "You know why I didn't. But I can't say it, it becomes real. And real things can break." His voice was quiet and deep; John felt his breath on his skin when he spoke.

John didn't resist his hold on him; merely lay under Sherlock's weight, never letting his eyes leave Sherlock's. John studied his eyes, the expression on his face; felt his skin against his own and his steady heartbeat resonating with his own pulse. And wasn't it so, wasn't it right what Sherlock said? Hadn't he himself been afraid that it was all just a dream and that it might be taken away any second? What he saw on the face of the man holding him was what he knew to be true in himself as well; but he didn't dare to have the words for it either. When you give something a name it becomes that, when you give a definition; and what is once defined cannot remain pure because it is always compared to what it was.

And what did it matter really, the reason for Sherlock not to take his own life or John to see the new ease in him; what difference did it make if it all was indeed a dream?

It didn't matter; it wouldn't have changed anything. Because everything was as it needed to be; and that was something neither one of them would forget.

-FIN-

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Thank you all who stayed with me throughout the story, I would love to hear your thoughts on it.


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